Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jazz is running before he hits the ground, the greasy fireball of a coolant explosion buoying up behind him and sending licks of bright green light darting through the dark. It’s night on Elom, thirty hours into what will be a full three days of pitch blackness and orange halogen emergency lights, and the darkness is as much trusted friend as enemy at this point - hiding him, keeping him safe, but also making it virtually impossible to navigate the labyrinthine corridors of the Highridge Base.

Two hours into the Decepticon attack, enough of the base is burnt or burning that even his best maps are almost useless. The tunnels are weaving, most of the doors damaged enough to need to be manually pulled open against protesting tracks, and there’s a vague sense of going downward into nauseating pressure as his altimeter needle slips ever so slightly lower.

At this point, the base is lost, even if the Decepticons won’t be claiming it. Easier to rebuild than to repair - cleaning up even the coolant spills will be more effort than the distant outpost is worth, once they’re sure the rubble is cleared of survivors.

He breaks down another level, the air thinning and cooling as he leaves the worst of the fires behind, and grins - his goal, the security room, just around the corner from the brig.

Downloading the security feeds from the computers is easy, his overrides taking flawlessly to the compatible system. One set of files sticks, demanding further authorizations, and he offers it Prime’s codes - when they’re rebuked, however, he leans back, allowing concern to flicker over his features, and then presses into the code.

Dismantling the protections on the files is surprisingly easy - despite the clearance issues, their firewalls are weak and the encryption shoddy. The base commander, Starweave,’s tags are everywhere, and Jazz can’t help but tap his foot and whisper “Naughty, naughty,” into the silent hum of the empty floor.

The sobbed gasp that answers back is enough to keep the files zipped - for the moment. Jazz looks up, eyes flicking around for the source of the noise, and flinches back when it’s followed by a scream.

Training tells him to leave. His job is done, the base is burning, and he should go - quickly and quietly and seen by no one. Pity - and knowledge of his Prime’s soft spark - tell him that he should at least investigate. This deep, even if he reports an injured mech, it will take days to get to him again, and mercy dictates that he should at least find the mech and stabilize him in stasis, or end his suffering with a fast termination. This low, the wounded will be a fellow Autobot - the ‘Cons made no real effort to penetrate the base before the first of their bombing runs. It’s the decent thing to do.

With a huff of vents, Jazz follows the sound of cries - now dissolved into staticky, broken sobbing, down the hall.

The door between him and the noise has lost power, and after a moment of shoving, he realizes that it’s no ordinary door - heavy, solid metal, and, more curiously, completely soundproofed, as long as it has energy to run the noise baffles. Not cheap, not at all, and a brutal flare of suspicion ignites in the infiltrator’s spark. Not the sort of thing often seen on a ‘Bot base.

He doesn’t waver, laying the thin strips of incendiary neatly around the lock with practiced ease before stepping back and shuttering his eyes. Magnesium-white light still flares across his auxiliary photoreceptors, but it’s not enough to blind him against the less-precise sensors, and as the last heat fades away, he pushes through the unlocked door.

The sight of a broken, chained body pinned against the far wall confirms all his worst suspicions, and a tight, terse comm to Prowl and Prime is outbound before he even finishes crossing the rubble-strewn floor. “Prowl, I want Starweave in custody NOW, and whoever’s right below him. Don’t be gentle. Prime, get in touch with Ratchet, get a crew together for an extraction and be ready to come to my location on my order - I’ve got a badly injured mech here, but we’re real deep. I’ll comm if it looks like he’s gonna live.”

Prowl pings confirmation, but it’s only seconds later that the tactician’s opened a proper channel. “Sorry, Jazz. Command staff’s dead - got taken out by one of the bombers. Highest ranking officers on base right now are the squad leaders, not including our own mechen.”

“Slag. Hold on, then - I’ll fill you in when I’ve finished here.” Jazz sets his own commlink to do-not-disturb, overlaying it with glyphs of medical emergency and first aid in progress to ward off any distractions.

Pulling the mech down is brutal, slow work. He’s got chains on his wrists, on his ankles, but the challenge is the thick rebar driven through his frame - through joints, through plating, even through his neck cabling. It takes a moment, in the dark and damaged room, to realize that it’s not shrapnel from an explosion, but only a moment - Jazz, after all, is a torturer, too, when need calls for it, and recognizing the precise skill with which the mech has been impaled is easy to a mech of similar talents.

The rebar pulls free slowly, and it’s a testament to the skill of the mech who put it there that his victim doesn’t immediately bleed out from a thousand savage wounds. One by one, Jazz pulls the bars free, until the mech is hanging only from his wrists.

When the mech speaks, optics still dark, Jazz freezes.

“Don’t…” his voice is staticky, almost too cracked to understand. “Them… please don’t…”

Glancing up worriedly, Jazz meets the mech’s optics and realizes his mistake - they aren’t dark because the mech is unconcious. The scraped-out holes where glass and lense should be are terrifying in the inky dark, and Jazz feels his vents catch - and he isn’t a mech familiar with fear.

It takes a moment to catch himself, but no longer. Shaking fingers unspool a cable, pressing it into a port with the cover brutally twisted away - and that isn’t something he can think about now. Panicking, here, will win him nothing - and with that thought firm in his mind, he sends a databurst down the cable, shooting one of the most aggressive viruses he’s written into the processor of the other mech. He feels the struggle as firewalls trigger one by one, desperately fighting the invader - not him, but the virus itself - and ultimately failing as it tears through the mech’s processor, felling protections and passing failsafes with brutal efficiency even as the mech grows more and more terrified.

Finally, the mech defeated even in his own mind, the virus finds its goal and triggers. Less than three seconds after first connection, the mech slumps a little more, unconscious, in the chains.

Jazz feels a little pity. Being placed in stasis with such a brutal processor attack is cruel, a torture in itself - were he in any better condition, a slam on the back of the helm would be the more merciful option. But leaving the mech fully-conscious as he attempts field repairs would be no better, and the risk of him thrashing and harming himself further unacceptably high.

The infiltrator is careful as he lets the tortured mech down, gently lowering him to the ground. It takes a moment to recognize the frametype, a carrier, ravaged as it is by abuse - plating torn and blackened, carved away from protoform and cauterized with brutal efficacy, the tiny scorchmarks of an electrowhip tracing thin white lines across delicate wires. One leg lies twisted as the mech is settled on the ground, and it takes Jazz a moment to realize that it’s been twisted free of its bearing, wires and worn cables all that’s keeping it attached to the other mech’s frame.

Even as he works, Jazz can see the skill that went into the torture, far beyond anything he’d allow of his own mechs. Months of effort, the oldest damage overlaid with new scars, mottled welds where the mech had been taken apart and stitched together again, cracked sensors where heat and cold were used to torture the mech until the sensors themselves could no longer bear the strain, and it makes the interrogator’s tank churn - the Decepticons flinch and falter at the mere mention of his name, scream and run from shadows at the simplest suggestion that he might be present in their base, and he has never, ever done this much damage to a mech.

The work is carefully done, however. As much pain as he may be in, as bad as the damage may seem, as extensive as the repairs will need to be, the mech isn’t dying, isn’t even that close, and Jazz nearly trembles with relief that he chose to investigate. The mech…

The mech almost certainly would have still been alive when they got down here again. Online, even, if he didn’t manage to slam himself into stasis against the wall.

Still, with no immediate repairs left to do, he opens comms. Ratchet pings him first, layering his demands with insistence/information requested/damage report and the powerful command coding of a medical officer. Jazz complies, even as he feels Ratchet reel back in horror, and then pings the same report to Prowl and Optimus.

Both are very, very quiet, acknowledging the reports with a soft pong before falling silent to review them. Prowl is the first to reply.

“I am going to go investigate this further amongst the surviving team leaders. If any know of this, I will have them brought before you for justice, Prime.” His comm flickers without waiting for a response, tone unusually guarded for even the typically private mech, and blacks out, warning and do not interrupt and Prime’s business flickering across his own do-not-disturb.

Prime doesn’t speak for another moment, and Jazz feels his spark twist uneasily. “You’ve done well, Jazz. Thank you.” The commander’s words set him a little more at ease, and he feels the edge of terror that’s been brushing at his systems back off - the subtle fear of rejection over this, his function too, a purpose and a skill that Prime has always loathed. “This is beyond you, beyond anything you’ve done, Jazz. I don’t hate you.” Optimus’ comm is gentle, approving, and Jazz feels the last of his fear melt away.

“I should sweep the room, sweep the hall - there may be more victims, if he was hidden. The rooms are soundproofed, shielded - I won’t be able to tell unless I open them all.” Jazz hesitates, sending a ping to Prime that is just as readily ponged back. “Stay on comms with me? I don’t want to be out of touch if I find any surprises.”

Optimus sends approval down the comm, and Jazz can feel the low hum of a resetting commline as it switches from a fast-and-dirty command line to one of the more permanent commlinks. He moves down the hall wordlessly, prying open doors as he goes, but there’s nothing in any of them. Not until he reaches the last one, more a storage locker than a cell.

It’s instinct, unnerving and canny, that has him burning open that door, too. The sight of the mechen dismantled on the table in the middle of the room has his tanks heaving, and he sends a desperate burst comm down the line to Prime, whose sudden, steadying presence in his ear is all that keeps him from purging like a sparkling all over the floor.

Four mechs, tiny - and after a moment, he realizes that they’re cassettes. No, five, he realizes after a moment - two mechkin, a quad of some kind, designed for stealth over Steeljaw and Ramhorn’s brute strength, and not one but two avians, one, easily overlooked, small enough to perch in his hand.

All of them are damaged, and badly - not with the careful, agonizing precision and creativity of the larger mech, but with simple, brutal injuries, crushed plating and torn limbs and shredded armor over bruised, scarred protometal. He pings the data to Prime and Ratchet, helpless to do anything to repair such tiny, tiny mechs even if he knew where to begin - they’re too small, too fragile, and his field training is woefully insufficient for damage like this.

Ratchet merely confirms, but Prime speaks, keeping his tone as steady as possible. “Good job, Jazz. Thank you - thank you for finding them. We will be with you in under twenty minutes - we’ve diverted to pick up Wheeljack, to help handle the additional casualties, and he’s promised a more… direct route to your location. Just… remain calm. Talk through it, if you need to - I am here to listen. I won’t leave you.”

Jazz is silent for a long moment, allowing himself to slump against the wall of the storage room as he shoves away distress, forces himself deeper into mission mode, forces back panic and rage. Optimus waits for him to speak, a warm pressure through the commlink, but when nothing comes, he begins speaking again, soft, low voice offering reassurances and thanks that push the chaos back farther.

By the time he hears the rumble, Jazz has collected himself - Head of Intelligence, Autobot Third-in-Command Jazz has gathered himself and can stride confidently towards the hole currently slowly burning through the wall of the security room. It takes another minute, but eventually, the wall simply dissolves away worryingly, and Wheeljack steps through, a boxful of powder in hand and already sprinkling it across the edges of the hole, which are a sickly pink.

“Don’t get any of it on you, no, hold on Primus damn it Ratchet, it’ll eat right through you if you get it on your plating -” He breaks off as Ratchet forces past him, past Jazz, already heading for the carrier.

“He’s stable, the symbionts are worse -” Jazz tries to interrupt, but Wheeljack grabs his shoulder as Ironhide and Optimus step into the small room, heads ducking low.

“I’ve got them - I’ve got more experience with microrepairs, even if we’re dealing with mecha rather than my inventions at the moment. He doesn’t have the tools on him - no need, when Blaster didn’t come with us, and there were no carriers among the base staff.” The inventor strides down the hall, Ironhide beside him, and even Jazz flinches at the frontliner’s curses when the red mech enters the storage room.

Optimus lays a hand on Jazz’s shoulder, warm and comforting, and opens his mouth to speak, but the infiltrator cuts him off. “I’m fine, Prime. Just had to get a little further into the code, that’s all - thanks for grounding me.” The larger mech hesitates, but backs off at the smile Jazz offers him, and turns towards the hall himself.

“Ratchet will need us - can you lend a hand?”

Jazz nods, slipping into the hallway, and does his best to ignore the agonized hiss that Optimus lets out upon seeing the damaged mecha lying in the torture chamber. Ratchet is deep in his work, reclamping smaller leaks, hoses already busily transferring processed energon from the medic’s lines into the carrier’s, but he glances up to greet them.

“Really nothing I can do down here. He’s not dying, Jazz was right about that - this wasn’t meant to kill him. It’s going to take a lot of work, real, med-bay repairs, but he’ll be ready to move as soon as I’ve got his energon levels above twenty percent.” He fixes Jazz with a glare. “And don’t think I can’t tell what you did. All of his firewalls, Jazz? Really? You can spend the time putting those back together before I bring him back online, and do a damn good job of it - I’m not having a processor-wounded mech panicking in my medbay because you couldn’t knock him offline without ripping through half his processor.”

“He had already been online through me pulling two dozen sticks of rebar out of his chassis, Ratchet. I wanted him offline, I wanted it painless, and I wanted it fast.”

“He was online for… Primus.” The medic looks shaken even further at that, optics bright. “Primus.” He stares down at his patient, field teeking distress, for a moment as energon slowly drains into the mech. His gaze only flicks up when Ironhide enters the room.

“Ratch, Wheeljack says the little guys are as good as they’re gonna get. He’s strapping them to the table, and I’m gonna carry them out - you got this guy, Prime?”

Optimus nods, transforming, and Ratchet is careful as he straps the injured mech to the Autobot commander’s bed. The trip back up the tunnel is slow, the two frontliners careful not to jostle their precious cargo, and a bulky shuttle meets them at the top. It’s a long, silent trip back to base, and Jazz lets himself drift on the edge of recharge, listening to Wheeljack and Ratchet argue over some aspect or another of cassette medical care. Optimus, besides him, is warm, Ironhide a comforting presence at the minibot’s other side, and between them, he allows himself to come down from the mission high, spark slowing to pulse at a calmer, steady rate.

Chapter Text

Ratchet’s face is solemn as Jazz and Optimus enter the medbay. The medic is leaned over a berth, the still form of the still-nameless but mostly-repaired carrier beneath him, and focused on his work, welding a new glass panel on the mech’s tape deck. He glances up at the pair, finishing the thin line before leaning back to regard them.

“We’re getting there, Prime. Internally, he’s completely fixed, nothing left to do but allow his autorepair to fix his protoform and hope everything integrates when he boots for the first time. Optic replacements went well - I cleaned everything out, and the actual connectors weren’t damaged, but I’m worried about how he’ll react to them. Some mechs don’t handle sensor replacements well, and the damage to them was pretty traumatic.”

“You’ve done an incredible job, old friend. More than I thought you’d be able to achieve, with how damaged he was when Jazz found him.” Optimus reaches out, and Ratchet leans into the touch, stress obvious in his frame. He grunts in acknowledgement before turning to the black and white mech.

“So, as his medic, I have to ask: what are you planning to do to him? I won’t see him released from here if you’re just going to be bringing him back - and you know I’ve got the right to keep him as long as I want, him and those cassettes of his.”

Jazz snarls, optics bright, and straightens to his full height. “What, you think I’m going to torture him, Ratch? Thought we were better friends than that, medic. You know as well as I do that I’ve never approved anything like this - not even for Shockwave, and there’s nothing that that mech doesn’t deserve.” Dentae bared, he stares down the medic, and Ratchet flinches first, glancing away.

“I’m sorry - you’re right. That was out of line.” Ratchet hesitates, staring down at the blue frame of the Decepticon soldier. “Still… what is he? Prisoner of war? Patient? I need to know, Jazz - I can’t treat him unless I have something to build off of. He may come out of this fine - he’s got five bonded mechen, that’s enough to stabilize a lot of damage - but they were tortured, too. It’s possible he won’t be… won’t be intact, when he wakes up.”

Jazz deflates, plating flattening as the anger leaves him. “What’s the worst case scenario, Ratch? What are we dealing with, here?”

“Worst case? His coding rejects the optics, his processor fragments to protect itself from the trauma of prolonged torture, and his bonds to his symbionts break and rebound on him. We’re left with a half a dozen dead symbionts and a blind, spark-shattered, insane mech without the processor capacity to even recognize himself as an independent consciousness.” He looks up, meeting the shocked gazes of the other mechs. “You did ask for the worst scenario. That’s as bad as it gets, with damage like this. Not likely, but it’s possible.”

Optimus grimaces. “The best case, then?”

“Best case would be that he dissociated himself from the worst of the torture, limited his connection to the symbionts as much as possible, and has a damnably strong spark. In that case… provided the repairs take, he could still come out of this an intact mech. That’s not to say he’ll be without lasting damage - he was still tortured - but it would be the sort of thing that therapy and time can overcome. The symbionts would recover as well, in that case - his processor is far more powerful than theirs, and that means he can drag them back to functioning with him even if they’ve been badly scarred by the experience.”

Jazz nods. “That would be… something I could handle. I’ve had to deal with my own mechs coming back to me after torture - I’ve got the skills and the experience, and while no ‘Con’s going to look at seeing me and be happy about it, I’ve played the good cop before. What’s your opinion, then, doc? What’s the most likely outcome for this?”

Ratchet considers, reaching down to tap the now-set glass panel. “This is the key, I think - carrier. They’re formidable mechs - it takes a powerful processor to coordinate a six-way bond, and a powerful spark to sustain it. They know how to use them, too - it takes skill and extensive knowledge, about the spark and processor both, to be able to create more than one or two bonds. He’d definitely know how to dissociate - it’s a vital skill when you share any physical pain amongst a half-dozen mechen you care about - and he would probably have done so at the earliest opportunity. The bonds, though - I don’t know. He might have guttered them, to spare his symbionts or himself the pain, or he might have kept them wide, hoping to protect them - and I don't know which would have served him better. If he guttered them, then there’s the potential that he avoided the majority of the actual torture - or he may founder while rebuilding those connections. If he kept them wide… that’s a lot of pain, but his clade may be more stable, better able to bring him back from it. There’s no way to tell.”

“Until he onlines.” Jazz interjects.

“Yes.”

“Which will be…”

“Not for at least a few days. He needs time to recover physically, first - then worry about his mind. That can wait a little.”

Optimus nods his agreement. “He is yours, old friend - Jazz and I both bow to your authority on matters of the frame. Give him what time he needs - he has suffered a grievous wound at our hands, and the least we can offer him is that.” He grinds his dentae, the uncharacteristic gesture of irritation enough to make both Ratchet and Jazz glance at him in surprise.

“Optimus?”

“I am sorry. I cannot help but wish that Starweave were still among the living - I would have answers, for what he did to this mech. I would… I would like to know if there were others.”

Jazz pauses, a flicker of memory nagging at him, and then swears. “Slag.”

Both of the taller mechen look down at him at that, Ratchet’s eyebrows rising. “Jazz?”

“Someone does know. Prowl. When I grabbed the files for him, there was a set that wouldn’t open to even your authorizations, Prime - I hacked them and brought them with me, but never got around to popping them open. I doubt Prowler’s opened them, yet - but yeah, if I were torturing a mech and knew my Prime wouldn’t approve, that’s how I’d have my files secured…”

The three mechs stare at each other for a moment, optics bright. Then Ratchet turns back to his patient.

“Well? Go find out, you two - whatever you can tell me about him will be useful. Name, rank - anything like that.”

“You don’t want to come?” Jazz sounds surprised.

“And find out what sort of monster could do this to a mech first-hand? No. No, I’ll stay here, keep chugging away at this. You can handle it, I’m sure.”

The other two mechs look at each other - Jazz shrugs, and Optimus nods obligingly, and they both tromp out of the medbay without argument.

In the white room, Ratchet reignites his welding torch, and gets back to work.

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There’s no audio to the files, frustratingly. No labels, either, beyond dates - just recording after recording of torture, in-depth and arduously slow to watch. It takes a few hours to churn through the majority of the videos, even with three mechs working on four or five videos at once - well over a thousand hours of agony, of watching the blue mech twist and thrash and plead soundlessly as he’s subjected to a hundred different tortures.

They learn a few things. The torturer is always the same, a white mech easily identified as Starweave - sometimes accompanied by his SIC, Howlwing, usually alone. The symbionts appear in several of the videos, maybe a few dozen hours in all - but sometimes, the torture will slow, and Starweave will speak to the bound carrier, and then the mech writhes and sobs and begs without anything visible causing him pain, and it’s easy enough to figure out what’s going on.

Prowl begs off after the sixth hour, and the other two let him go - Jazz would make Prime leave, too, he’s designed for this and the other mech isn’t, is clearly hurt by the videos, but Optimus refuses, claiming that it’s his job to understand this failing so he can prevent it ever happening again. Jazz doesn’t have it in him to argue - his job though it may be, he doesn’t want to have to face this alone.

Ten hours in, and the last file over, they finally meet each other’s gazes.

“Energon?” Jazz offers, and Optimus helps him up.

“I’ll comm Ratchet,” he offers, and the two stagger out into the bright hallway lights.

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It’s not just Ratchet who’s waiting for them in the officer’s rec room when they arrive, although the medic is there, a tray of high-grade and additives with him. The red-and-white mech is perched atop his larger mate’s lap, Ironhide’s arm loose around his waist. Prowl perches, as always, on the back of an armchair, ankles crossed and perfectly balanced as his fans spit boiling air behind him, dumping the heat from his overclocked processors as he works his way through the pile of datapads covering the seat and stacked carefully on each arm of the chair.

Optimus slumps into his own seat, a massive, stiff-backed affair more couch than chair, with an exhausted groan, and Jazz settles besides him, taking in the other mech’s warmth.

“How much did you get through?” Prowl sounds curious, and a bit concerned.

“All of it.” Optimus grunts the words, shuttering his optics. “Hours and hours and days of it.”

“Primus, Optimus! I meant look at a bit, see if you could find anything - not work yourselves to exhaustion! How much was there?”

“Days, old friend. More than a month, in all, just in video - all of it of torture. From the dates, it took place over well over three months - I cannot tell you much beyond that, however. There was no audio, only video.”

Ratchet grimaces. “And of course you watched it all.”

Jazz raises his hands defensively at the medic’s annoyance. “Hey, I told him he could go. I had to watch it all, though - had to know. It helped, some - I’m feeling a lot more in control now.”

“Ah. And you, Optimus?”

“I would dearly like the opportunity to rip Starweave apart with my own bear hands.”

Every mech in the room freezes, four sets of optics fixing on the Prime as even Prowl’s overworked fans sputter, stall out, and restart. Finally, the tactician recovers enough to stammer the word on everyone’s processor.

“W-what?”

Optimus meets his optics, face stoic. “You saw what I did - and it only got worse once you left. That mech was tortured by a monster, worse than a monster, without reason, without mercy - is it so surprising, that I would want to see such a beast dead?” He shutters his optics. “Is it so wrong, that I would want to see such a mech feel some of the hurt he’s inflicted before he rejoins the Matrix?”

Prowl hesitates. “Not wrong.” His doorwings twitch uneasily. “Merely… uncharacteristic? Unexpected, to hear you so openly wish the suffering of any mech.” They flick again, and his voice darkens. “Still, I suppose it shows some little of your mercy. I would do far worse to it, if it were in my hands.”

“Well, that’s why we have our own rec room, right? So nomech has a spark-seizure upon hearing the sainted Prime wishing a gory death on another of Primus’ creations?” Ironhide laughs. “Still, I hope the little mech survives. Blaster was sayin’ that if he didn’t, his bitlet’s’d die too? They’re so tiny - like sparklings…”

“There is some good news, at least on that front. I went digging a bit - looked through what I could get on a surface scan of processor functions. Nothing invasive, Jazz - I didn’t get any information for you - but I think he’s going to be alright. Processor function is high, matching what I’d expect based on Blaster’s readings, and he’s ping-ponging his cassettes regularly, about every six seconds. It looks like - Primus willing - you’re going to get a whole mech, however traumatized.”

“Really?” Jazz lets his field teek his relief. “Thank the Pit. I had worried.”

“It won’t be easy, fixing him.”

“No, no it won’t. But I’ve had all day to think about it, and I’ve got to say, what I’ve seen speaks well of him - loyal, dedicated, strong enough to take more pain than any mech ever should have to. So if you’re right, Ratchet, if he comes out of this with his processor intact, I’m going to break him.” Jazz lets the words slip of his tongue, tasting them as if their tone could tell him how worthy a plan it is. Ratchet looks over in shock, optics darkening as he opens his mouth to protest, but Jazz raises a hand to still him and the medic slumps back against Ironhide’s frame. The red mech, too, is staring at the intelligence mech, optics dim with suspicion.

“I’m going to break him, and build him back up, and when he’s well again, when he’s sure that I won’t hurt him because I’ve had him at his weakest and not hurt him then, I’m going to flip him, and he’s going to be ours.”

Ratchet snorts disapprovingly at the words, but he looks contemplatively at the brilliant grin on Jazz’s lips anyways. “And you won’t have to hurt him further to do this, Jazz? Even if he comes through the last few months fine - as fine as you can call a traumatized mech, anyways - he’s still going to be vulnerable. More torture, finding himself healed only to be torn apart again? That’s as likely to throw him over that edge as anything that Starweave did.”

Jazz seems relieved at Ratchet’s willingness to play along with him. He nods along to the question, head bouncing to a rhythm the others can’t hear, and his reply, when it comes, is easy.

“Yeah, well… that’s the thing about torture, Ratchet, the thing that made what Starweave did so ineffective. Physical abuse, even as careful as he was? It’s heat, just making the ceramic hot, but it doesn’t break the plating. But that ceramic, if you chuck it in a bucket of water? It shatters.” He spreads his fingers apart, grinning. “That mech? Right now, he’s red-hot. But a little mercy, a little kindness, from a mech who he doesn’t think will offer it? That’ll break him. And what ‘Con would ever expect mercy from the Prime’s own torturer?”

Optimus opens his mouth as if to speak, but Ratchet cuts him off. “And rebuilding him?”

“Like training a frightened mechanimal. Soft touches, warmth, safety, energon - someone who’ll listen when he begs and protect him when he frags up, who won’t punish him over the things he can’t help.”

Ironhide takes the next turn to interject before his Prime. “You said he was loyal, mech. Impressive, you said. What the Pit’s gonna make him turn traitor about you going soft on him? He’s just going to escape, or never stop trying… Might be worth it to let him, with what he’s been through. A friendly field’ll fix a lot, and we could call us clear with him for letting him go.”

Prowl catches the thought before Jazz can refute it. “No. If he escapes or is freed, Megatron gains a valuable weapon - the chance to shove his suffering at Autobot hands in the faces of those Neutrals still undecided in the war. We will lose what ground we have gained with those we court, and the vicious elements that we have fought to undermine in our own ranks will gain traction.” He frowns. “I cannot recommend that even word of his experiences leave this room except on a need-to-know basis.”

“Spec-ops will be informed.” Jazz’s tone brooks no arguement. “They need to know what to look for, and they may be involved in my efforts.”

“Of course.”

“He will flip, if I’m careful.” The intelligence mech leans back in his chair. “Megatron doesn’t reward loyalty, and everyone knows it. Look at Starscream. If he’s got any brain, this mech knows it too - and he’s got a lot more to consider than just the Decepticon cause. Offer his clade a home, better treatment than a mid-ranked ‘Con gets with old Megsy, and he’ll be tempted. Offer him an environment that rewards loyalty, that respects it even when it’s not to their cause, that will let him keep whatever ideals he has and won’t force him to kowtow to beliefs he doesn’t share? I’ve seen good mechs, strong mechs who have suffered less and have less to lose, turn fanatic for less. He’ll come to us.”

“Will they be happy?” Optimus’ words are soft, and he caresses Jazz’s helm with a gentle touch. The saboteur, the torturer, pauses to consider his answer, and when he speaks, the words ring with as much honesty and surety as he can bring to bear.

“Yes, Prime. If I do my job right, if he comes to us, he will be happy. As happy as any mech can be, in this damned war.”

“Then do it. I will authorize you to act as you see fit with both this mech and his clade - from this moment on, they are in your keeping, and you will have final say in regards to their treatment. Don’t prove me wrong in this, Jazz.”

The black and white mech meets the blue optics of his commander, steel will and confidence echoing across his field as he replies.

“Don’t worry, Optimus. I won’t.”

Chapter Text

Soundwave onlines to brilliant, unabating light, bright enough to make his optics flicker. It takes him a moment before the significance of that hits him - last he can remember, he didn’t have optics to flicker - and he forces them online, gazing up at the ceiling above and the too-bright medbay lights.

He is in a medbay - he has to be. There’s no mistaking the clean white lines of the machinery suspended overhead, and he’s been so long in the Autobot’s hands that he’s certain they have no interrogation chambers like this. Rescue? Or had they finally taken things too far, been forced to mount some kind of repair effort or watch his spark, and his secrets, gutter in a frame too damaged to support life?

It doesn’t matter. He’s online, alive, and he has a job to do. Soundwave offlines his optics, and prays, and reaches out.

He throws his spark with everything he has at the bond between him and his clade. It’s hard - so, so hard, they’ve been apart so long - but he could never forget, never lose, those bonds between him and his symbionts, and when he seeks them, they respond. The bonds are faint, fragile from his own weakness and their disuse, but one by one, they flare with a little life, until he can feel all five sparks pulse softly besides his own.

It feels like he’s ripping his own spark out as he gutters the bonds again, one by one.

Academically, he knows it’s the only way to keep them safe. Separate, long enough, and they have a chance of surviving his own offlining. And they do have knowledge, secrets and stories and codes, that they could trade to the Autobots if they had to - he’s made sure of it. Maybe, with enough luck, they could find a carrier or pitying medic that would take them in. Maybe they could survive. They’ve been so good - so faithful, when all he’s caused them is pain. He owes them the chance, at least.

When he’s alone again, the walls of his own processor a claustrophobic cage, he turns his attention to his own frame. It’s… not in any pain. It takes him a few seconds to notice, the sensation unfamiliar after months of varied, everchanging tortures, but when he investigates, he realizes that it’s not merely a trick of coding or a painkill chip, although one of those is slotted into the medical port at his wrist. He’s been repaired, expertly and well, and the work is surprisingly complete - whatever medic got to him has rerun his damaged energon lines completely rather than patch, has replaced struts where a weld might have held, has fixed his optics rather than leave him to function off of sonar and fieldsense.

Rescue, then? Soundwave feels a thrill of hope. But…

The Decepticons don’t have the resources to replace what could be patched. They don’t have the trained medics to rebuild a ruined bot. A reward, for keeping his silence? Consideration, on behalf of his clade? Or…

Or is he still trapped, in a game that may have gotten much, much more dangerous?

The sound of shifting to his left may offer an answer, the faint buzz of someone speaking via comms to a nearby mech alerting him to the medic’s presence. And it is a medic, he confirms when he onlines his optics again and looks over - red and white, heavily-framed if a bit small, blue-opticked, and - there. Autobrand.

The hope dies, leaving a gaping pit of fear in its place. He’s still a prisoner, still caged in this pit, and there’s no way out - there was never any way out. Months and months unbroken, and he’s going to die here.

The medic reaches out, snaps his fingers in front of Soundwave’s optics. When the carrier looks up at him, he nods approvingly. “Good mech. Optics in order, then? Any irregularities in your vision?”

Soundwave stares up at him, bewildered and terrified. He opens his mouth at the other mech’s question, but he can’t quite answer, vocalizer resetting itself in a wave of frightened static. The red and white mech looks down at him and sighs, fingers flicking up-down-left-right, and hums approvingly as Soundwave struggles to track them.

“A little delay, nothing unusual for such an extensive surgery. You may have trouble tracking for a few days - if it gets too overwhelming, find something that’s not moving and focus on it. If that doesn’t help, let me know - I’ll take a look and make sure you don’t need those optics recalibrated.” The medic pauses, and a warm hand presses gently at Soundwave’s shoulder. “My name is Ratchet, Autobot medical officer. You’re in my medbay - safe. I won’t allow anyone to hurt you here.”

Fear swells up under Soundwave at the words, irrational and consuming. He’s been repaired. He knows that, can tell with every ventilation that doesn’t ache and shift that doesn’t send pain shooting through his protoform, in the smooth way his armor sits against his frame. But there’s no explanation - no why presents itself for the Autobot’s sudden change of approach or the medic's light touch and kind, pitying gaze.

"I'm not going to hurt you," the mech repeats. "You're safe. Please, try to calm yourself. Can you speak?"

Soundwave honestly isn’t sure. He tries, but the sound that bursts from his vocalizer is pure static. He resets his vocalizer, and tries again.

"Soundwave: can speak."

The success surprises even him, but the medic - Ratchet - only nods approvingly.

"Good. How are you feeling? Any pain? Can you sense all of your symbionts?”

Soundwave can only nod helplessly along, torn by the very normality of the questions, questions that he would expect from any of the Decepticon medics. Everything about the Autobot is bewildering.

“Very good. Now, how much of the last four months do you remember?” The medic presses a firm hand down on Soundwave’s chest when he jerks in fright, fans picking up to a panicked whirr, and pins him against the berth. “Calm down, calm down! I just need to know if you’ve lost any time. Do you remember how you got here? Someone pulling rebar out of your chest? An explosion?”

Soundwave continues to writhe for a moment, not even sure of what he’s fighting, only that he is very, very afraid of surrendering to it. Finally, though, he allows his higher processes to take over, and slumps back to the berth with a choked gasp as his fans kick down.

“Soundwave: remembers explosion - remembers loud noise from above, shaking against wall. Soundwave: remembers little else.” He pants out the words, cracked and still-staticky. “Query: Autobot plans for Soundwave? Soundwave: will not reveal confidential information for repairs.”

“Ratchet: is medic, not interrogator. Shush, you. I’ve already told you, I’ll have none of that sort of thing in here, and I don’t want any of what you can tell me - I’m not having anything to do with that business.” The medic huffs with frustration. “Bad enough I had to fix what was already done to you.”

Soundwave stares up at Ratchet with confused red optics, still uncertain how to handle his new circumstance. The medic seems to be serious about not intending to cause him pain - even the weight on his chest has slipped away into mere warm pressure with the last of his struggles - but his words offer no answers to the frightened carrier.

All he can do is repeat himself. “Query: Autobot plans for Soundwave?”

“I’m not the mech to ask. He’ll be along in a bit - try not to frag him off too much, alright? I’d rather not have to fix you twice.”

The words are the furthest thing from reassuring, and Soundwave falls silent as the medic begins a series of tests, carefully working his way down his patient’s frame. Eventually, he steps back, glancing down to tap something into a datapad before turning and grabbing a cube of energon from the counter.

It’s pressed to Soundwave’s lips with the ease of a mech who has fed other mechs by hand before often, the stream slow and careful so he doesn’t sputter and gag on it as the first sip slips over his glossa. Still, Soundwave can’t help a whimper, processors calling up memories of a white mech with rough hands feeding him gently until he tipped the whole cube back and choked on the flood of fuel, of being forced to lick gagged energon off the floor of his cell.

At the sound, the medic pulls back the cube - and that brings up the worst memories of all, of days and days spent starving in the dark, new waves of torture the only thing breaking up the time. Soundwave sobs, and there’s a soft thumb at his optics to brush away the cleanser welling there, and the medic gently whispers reassurances as he once more offers the cube. This time, he’s more involved, soft hand stroking Soundwave’s helm as he supports the carrier’s head, and Soundwave manages to finish the cube, the feeling of being full - of being full of sweet, pure energon mixed with the trace metals his frame so desperately craves, rather than the mixed swill Starweave forcefed him - the closest sensation to pleasure he’s felt in a long time.

“You alright, now?” Ratchet waits for him to nod with a patient field, and Soundwave lets himself be comforted by the contact. He feels better than he has in months, whole, fueled, with no pain racing down the symbiont bonds from his suffering, defenseless clade, and it’s almost enough to let him relax.

Almost. The gristly knowledge that this mercy cannot be forever keeps him fighting, anxiety tightening his field like a wire. This mech, this glitched, merciful medic, will not protect him, will not protect his clade. And whatever comes next, whoever this mech is that the medic is warning him about? They can only be worse.

Ratchet stares down at him, and there’s something almost like real sorrow in his optics.

“You should…” He trails off, glancing up at the door, and grimaces. “He’s here - he wants to see you.” The medic traces one more warm caress over Soundwave’s helm before shifting away, walking to the door and pulling it open and slipping into the hallway. The door shuts behind him, and Soundwave is left alone with his thoughts.

He only has about a minute before the door opens, a new mech striding through confidently. Black and white, with a blue stripe down his chest, and a bright red Autobrand framed by matching streaks, the minibot moves with a poise that seems unnatural and predatory all at once, a contained brutality that twists at the carrier’s field and makes his spark burn cold. He feels a flicker of recognition, something almost-there that nags at his processors, whispering away behind the fear, but it’s not until the mech meets his eyes that he feels the flare of terrifying, brutal knowledge.

A blue visor, glinting brightly in the white light of the medbay. Black and white frame, and a blue visor, and a name walked out of Decepticon nightmares.

Oh… Oh Primus. Jazz.

Soundwave can’t move, can’t speak, can hardly think in terror. He brushes his consciousness lightly over the bonds, wishing he could reach out, take some comfort from the warmth of another loving spark. Ravage - her last carrier had offlined without warning, so had the one before that, she had survived before and would again - but no, Soundwave can’t bring himself to cause the cassette that much suffering, not when there’s who knows how much pain waiting before he dies.

But… Primus. Jazz.

He scours his processor for anything, anything he might have done to deserve this. A visit from the Prime’s own torturer, the third in command of the entire Autobot force? There’s nothing he knows that should merit this sort of attention. He’s a mid-ranked comms officer! No one tells him things that should merit this sort of attention! And yet, the reason for his repairs is suddenly abundantly clear.

This is Jazz, the Smelter incarnate, the most feared mech in the Autobot army - in the whole faction. This is Jazz, a torturer so famed that mechs deactivate themselves if they know the only alternative is falling into his servos. This is Jazz -

Why in the world would he want to toy with some base commander’s broken plaything?

Chapter Text

Jazz hovers patiently outside the door to the medical suite, waiting for Ratchet to finish his examination. The medic staunchly refused to allow him to be in the room when the mech onlines, citing “patient privacy” and also a need “for him to be able to focus without you terrorizing him” as his reasons before slamming the door in his face. It’s a bit annoying, but not unexpected, so he settles beside the doorframe, waiting for the red-and-white mech to finish his tests and watching the whole thing on the camera he’d slipped into the room hours earlier.

Finally, growing impatient with the medic’s delaying, he sends an insistent ping down comms, interrupting the mech as he offers the carrier some kind of… warning? about the interrogator. Ratchet shoots a wave of wordless irritation back, but says nothing, and moments later is stepping through the door.

“Against my better judgement, he’s all yours.”

“Did you find anything out about him?” The question is more formality than anything, confirmed by the filthy look Ratchet offers him.

“As if you don’t know. Yeah, I noticed the camera, Jazz - and if it’s not gone when he is, I’ll take it, and then you, down with a sledgehammer. My patients have a right to privacy.”

“Not this one.”

Ratchet lets out a little snarl, eyes flaring bright with irritation. “No, not this one, Primus-damn it, but I will not have intelligence mucking around in my medbay. It will be, and stay, gone. Understood?”

Jazz raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Alright. It’ll be gone.”

“Medically speaking, the mech is fine. Autorepair still needs to finish his protoform, so don’t go threatening to deny him energon - you won’t be able to follow through until that’s done without endangering his healing. Beyond that, go easy on the face, the optics are still callebrating.”

“Got it.”

“Good. Now go do whatever it is you’re planning. I’m going to wash up.”

The medic tromps away down the hall, and Jazz slips into the medical suite.

The blue mech - armor repaired, undented, and gratifyingly repainted - looks up at him in fright, but there’s no recognition there, at least at first. His optics range over the interrogator, uncertain, but it’s when Jazz catches them with his own that the carrier seems to realize who he is, body tensing, and a choked sob escaping his lips.

The larger mech begins to tremble, obviously terrified. Jazz knows what sort of things are said about him in the Decepticon army, and he forces himself to grin, to drive the mech deeper into the fear that will make him break. If he’s honest with himself - and brutally, brutally suppresses the suspicion that the feeling would leave Optimus horribly disappointed in him - he admits that he usually enjoys it. The feeling of power, of infamy - the sensation of knowing that every mech in the Decepticon army flinches when they hear his name, feels a spark-deep thrill of dread not unlike that felt for their own DJD. And yet…

This fear is different, and it’s hard to take any pleasure at all from it. It’s not fear of him, is the problem. It’s not fear of Jazz, of the carefully-groomed reputation that allows him to claim credit for so much wickedness without doing very much at all - it’s the frame-cracking, spark-deep terror of a broken mech afraid of more pain. And he had nothing to do with the breaking, hadn’t even authorized the tortures that had brought them to this point…

And the mech shrinking back from him in fear is so very, very young.

What to do with him, that’s the real question. A carrier and five - five! - cassettes, each a mech in their own right, and according to Blaster, virtually guaranteed not to survive without him. The Autobot carrier currently had only three bonds - Steeljaw, Ramhorn, and Rewind - and suggested he might be able to handle another three, but that would still leave them with at least three more deactivated mechen if something happened to the Decepticon carrier.

Unacceptable. Not after what he had seen - after what all six had endured at the hands of a “fellow” Autobot. Starweave was lucky he had died in the fall of his base - Jazz might not use his abilities as much anymore, preferring to lean on his reputation to avoid the worst of the dirty work of being head of intelligence, but he had not earned that reputation lightly.

The carrier - Soundwave, from what Ratchet had learned - is still staring, and his field flickers at the edges after a moment, as if reaching for a bond and drawing back. It’s not much, but it gives Jazz an idea, for a conversation starter even if it won’t wipe the fear from those eyes.

::Mirage.:: He sends a quick commburst, adding on the modifiers for an inbound order.

::Commander Jazz?:: The response comes with all of Mirage’s practiced manners, polite and composed.

::Head to medical holding. There should be five mechen there - minis, cassette-bots like Blaster’s kids. Talk to Aid, figure out which are stable enough to move, sedate one, and bring it here. Preferably one of the aerials.::

::Right away, Sir. Should I wait outside, or just come in?::

::Wait. I’ll comm again.::

With the cassette on the way, he returns his attention to the mech on the berth. Jazz keeps his tone curt and formal, unwilling to give up the advantages of being feared just yet - and, if he’s honest, interested in seeing how the terrified mech holds onto his processor.

“Designation?”

A nice, easy question. One that the mech has already answered - a simple, gentle start to an interrogation.

The carrier’s optics flare near-white as he realizes he’s being addressed, and he shrinks back - there’s a moment’s hesitation, and then a faint tremble as he realizes that this question, at least, he can answer without fear of betraying his faction.

“S-soundwave.”

Even so, the voice is so soft that Jazz leans in to hear it, winning a little moan of terror. Still, the mech has some bearings - he repeats it, louder, unprompted, even if his voice is shaking and it ends in a bit of a sob.

“S-soundwave. Decepticon Officer, Second Class, Mid- to Long Range Communications.”

The formal identification makes Jazz wince. It’s better when they start with just the name - more questions to lead into things, and it gets them out of the mindset of just repeating that phrase, over and over. Still, hardly the worst start to an interrogation - he has a name, and it came easily enough.

“Soundwave, huh? Sound/wave.” He lets the name roll across his vocalizer, toying with the inflection and the glyphs, swapping out several - protector/officer/bondmate - for those denoting submission and servitude and plaything and watching as a flicker of insult ignites in those red optics. It’s crushed, just as suddenly, by defeat - the little mech knows he has no way to stop Jazz from abusing his name, no way to assert himself as anything other than the slave that the modified name describes him as, and he hates it.

Jazz looks down at the silent carrier, and pity blooms in his chest. The mech before him is already broken - and, he reminds himself, his goal isn’t to do further damage.

“Soundwave.” This time, he says the name, and only one symbol is changed - officer into the frightening but ultimately honest prisoner - and Soundwave looks up at him with such suprised gratitude that Jazz wants to tease him for it. “Soundwave,” he repeats, just to see the relief spread a little further, and it’s pretty cute on the terrified carrier.

“So, Soundwave - beautiful designation, by the way - what should we call the cassettes?”

The mech immediately collapses in on himself, any relief replaced so quickly with fear and upset that Jazz can practically see his cables creak with the shift. It takes a moment for the carrier to muster any reply at all, and when he does, it’s such a blatant lie that Jazz wants to laugh:

“Cassettes: Drones. Designations: unnecessary.”

Jazz lets the knowledge of the lie slip to his face, watches the fright only grow as the carrier realize that the lie was a stretch too far, that he’s already been caught out. He reaches out, leaning across the restrained mech and down until their faces are inches from each other. There’s a faint whir of motors as Soundwave tries to extend his battlemask, but the thick plate - torn off brutally when he had found the carrier - was the one thing he had asked Ratchet to skip replacing, to simply cap off and go. A protection, a way to hide his emotions - good for the Decepticon, perhaps, but annoying for his interrogator.

He reaches up, and gently brushes a single figure along the slot where it would extend, enjoying himself as Soundwave practically convulses beneath him trying to escape the touch. He rubs, gently, and despite the shudder of fear, he knows that after so long with only pain, the touch must be pleasurable.

Still, amusing himself with the carrier’s reactions must wait. He still needs designations.

Jazz leans in a little further, and whispers “Liar.”

He pushes back, off of and away from the other mech, just as fast as he had appeared, trailing a finger down the carrier’s frame as he circles the other mech. When he’s standing at the mech’s other shoulder, he leans in, and taps him, right in the center of the helm.

“We know they’re proper mechen, same as you or I - spark, frame, mind. It would be nice to have designations, something to call them when they online - keep them nice and calm so they don’t have to be restrained… Of course, if you don’t want to tell me, I’m sure the first of them to online will… They’ll catch on that we know that they’re full-sparked soon enough, I’m sure.”

Almost before he finishes speaking, the carrier is shaking his helm. "No, please: wait."
He seems to steel himself, every protocol in him screaming to protect the clade, but uncertain, now, of what that means. "Quadruped: Ravage. Fliers: Laserbeak; smaller, Ratbat. Mechkin: Rumble, Frenzy." He hesitates for a moment, clearly weighing a display of weakness versus the potential of Jazz actually telling him something, and decides to beg.

"Please: Status?"

Jazz laughs. "You want to know how your little guys are doing? Why don't you see for yourself?" A silent comm has Mirage slipping into the medbay, the larger flier - Lazerbeak - draped in his arms. She's been fully repaired, only now locked in medical stasis to prevent her onlining before they've decided what to do with the little clade - no point in panicking them if the Autobots decide to reunite them with their carrier right away - and there's no real risk in handling her, at least according to the data that Mirage slips back across the commline.

Soundwave turns his head at the sound of the door opening, and this expression is delicious to Jazz - a mixture of fear, deep and consuming and intense, and desperate, desperate need. He lets himself enjoy it, lets himself get into the swing of things as he takes the little avian from his agent, Mirage gliding back out the door as easily and silently as he’d come.

Jazz makes a show of examining her. The cassettes, smaller than any other class of mech, have been repaired meticulously, and the light flier frame seems to have required special care, lines of solder and patch welds so thin and elegant that they could only be the work of Wheeljack's careful hands.

Soundwave lets out a terrified, longing whimper at the sight of his cassette hanging limp in the interrogator's palm.

"Relax, little mech. I'm not going to hurt her. Just want to get a good look... after all, they're so delicate. Beautiful, really..." He grins, trying to look a little less intimidating, but at the flood of out-of-control horror that fills the other mech's field, he jerks back, casting for what he might've said to provoke the unexpected response.

Delicate. Oh.

"Would you like to hold her? I'm not gonna break her, honest, but I suppose I can give you a minute or two to reassure yourself..." With an easy flip, he arranges the avian across her carrier's chest, wings outstretched and helm just close enough that he could nuzzle it with a little effort. A broadcast command, and he frees one of the carrier's arms - a freedom that he ordinarily wouldn't consider, carefully calculated to allow the mech to reassure himself of his bondmate's condition but no more. The berth is still magnetized, after all - there's no way to roll free, no way to curl up and protect the smaller mech except with that single hand.

Soundwave’s touch is careful, delicate as it examines the welds and repairs. He flinches as he explores the extent of the damage, and then gently reaches up to stroke the avian’s helm, pulling her close in a half-embrace. He meets Jazz’s optics over her broad, outstretched wings, and it’s obvious that he’s confused and frightened, but he looks grateful, too.

Jazz reaches out, to run his fingers down that smooth wing, but Soundwave’s hand rises protectively to block it.

“I’m not going to take her away yet, mech. Just wanted to touch.” He keeps his voice calm, hoping to avoid spooking the protective carrier further, and after a moment, the mech drops his hand back to her helm, allowing him to stroke the avian’s thin flightplates.

“Please: don’t harm her.” The carrier’s voice is tainted with static, the words oddly stiff, the phrasing overly formal. “Soundwave: will not resist, attempt escape. Soundwave: has no information of value to Autobot Jazz.”

“No information? A comms officer? You lot know everything… codes, locations, plans... I very much doubt that there’s nothing I could get out of you.” Jazz lets his fingers dance along the edge of Laserbeak’s wing, as if considering. Soundwave’s optics brighten, his field teeking his terror, and Jazz knows he’s right - the mech has something valuable, something he’s been protecting, through what must have been months of torture, real, honest-to-Primus platestripping torture. The dedication is incredible, the sheer shell-headed stubbornness admirable; the fact that Jazz can virtually guarantee that whatever he knew became worthless months ago makes it almost tragic. The reality that Starweave would have almost certainly deactivated them all had he given in, if only to cover up his own crimes, makes the small clade’s survival all the more impressive.

Which, he realizes after a moment, is assuming that the whole clade had survived. Blaster, after all, had offered to bond up to six.

He tucks the thought aside - he’s left the mech hanging, long enough that the fear in his field is on the very edge of turning to panic, and now’s the time to speak. He lets his hand sink down, still, until it’s a warm weight against the flier’s back and a single finger gently scratching the joint between wing and body, and meets Soundwave’s gaze.

“Fortunately, that’s not why I’m here - whatever little secrets you’ve got rattling your processors aren’t worth my time. M’ not here to torture you, mech.” He slides his hand up again, drifting carefully to settle it atop Soundwave’s, and the mech’s field recoils at the contact, Laserbeak’s presence obviously the only thing keeping him from flinching away.

“Query: Why is Autobot Jazz here, then? Jazz: too highly ranked to waste time with low-value prisoners…” The Decepticon trails off, still anxious.

“Well, Optimus - Prime - has a little issue he needs cleared up. A mech who suffered a Pit of a lot of torture at the hands of one of his base commanders, at the hands of a mech who should have known better - and wouldn’t you know it, but the mech who clears up problems like this one? Me.” Jazz grins, letting a touch of feral danger hit his field, and watching, satisfied, as Soundwave shudders beneath him, terrified at the grim implication of his words. “So you’re my ‘responsibility’ now. Prime’s given me carte blanche - I can do whatever I want with you and your cassettes, as long as his problem goes away.”

He leans in to stroke a finger along the edge of the carrier’s optics, letting himself indulge in the fear it brings, but careful not to cause pain along the sensitive border between metal and glass.

“I’m not going to hurt you, though. Or your little crew, as long as you don’t try anything - they’ll be treated well, as long as you continue to comply with me. Energon, shelter, safety, repairs - all you have to do is play along. That sound acceptable to you, carrier?” Jazz slips his fingers down the other mech’s cheeks, running them down an antenna before pulling back a little.

“Soundwave: will tell Jazz anything. Please.” The blue mech’s vocalizer cracks on the word, and his optics flicker and reset, his whole frame projecting defeat. “Cassettes: innocent, know nothing of use to Autobots that Soundwave does not. Soundwave: will tell Jazz whatever he asks.”

“Tell me? Nah… You weren’t listening earlier, were you? You have nothing I want. But I’m not gonna offline you for not being worth my time - so long as you’re a good little mech who does what he’s told, I won’t harm you or your clade.”

The carrier looks up at him, and Jazz feels almost bad for his aggressive treatment of the mech - the carrier is clearly exhausted, broken already and driven to deeper and deeper terror with every move Jazz makes. He nods, and there is such spark-deep surrender there, such absolute loss of self, that Jazz wants to force him to take it back.

“Sound/wave: will obey. Sound/wave: belongs to Autobot Jazz now. Sound/wave: understands.” The name he uses for himself is the same one Jazz mocked him with upon first learning his designation, a cruel mockery of his usual identifying glyphs, supplanted with markers of servitude, submission, and degradation - to hear it slip from the mech’s own lips feels like having it flung in his face, and Jazz winces.

“Soundwave,” he mirrors the other mech’s monotone, but the name he uses is the original, save for that one small tag for ‘prisoner’, and it’s said with enough force to cement it as his chosen name for the mech. The carrier shudders with relief. “will do just fine, I’m sure. You seem like a strong mech, and clever enough - I’m sure that you’ll make a fine little distraction.”

Jazz reaches down to run his fingers over Laserbeak’s back again before carefully hooking his fingers under her chest. As he moves to lift her away, Soundwave’s hand tightens, gentle and desperate, and he looks up at Jazz with pleading optics that would be enough to persuade a softer mech. “Please -”

“No. She was an incentive, nothing more - you don’t get to keep her. Perhaps, if you’re very, very good, you’ll earn that right.” He glares a little, voice hardening. “Now let me take her, or I won’t let you see any of them for a week. Either way I’ll have her back.”

The mixed pangs of exhaustion and horror that run across the Decepticons field at that take a moment to resolve, and Jazz hesitates, filing them away for further consideration as the carrier slowly lowers his hand. The saboteur is careful as he lifts the tiny cassette, arranging her neatly in his palm before tucking away her wings so they won’t crimp or crush while she’s carried - and all the while, Soundwave watches intently, as if hunting desperately for the first sign of abuse, the first bit of casual cruelty that will set the tone for his treatment of the vulnerable mechen.

Jazz doesn’t offer it, and it’s impossible to tell if that leaves the carrier more relieved or terrified.

When he’s sure that Laserbeak is safely tucked away, he remagnetizes the berth, forcing his field to teek amusement at the loud clang of an arm being dragged down to slam against the metal surface. It’s not satisfying, however - the sight of the carrier restrained sends a flush of nausea to his tanks, the memory of Soundwave pinned in another way entirely too fresh for comfort.

“The mech who brought your little symbiont - his name is Mirage. He’ll be along in a little bit, to take you to more suitable corridors - Ratchet isn’t happy about me playing with my toys in his medbay.” He pauses. “You’re to obey his orders without question, understood? He’s my direct subordinate, and he will be reporting your behavior to me - and, should you prove disobedient, I will be devising a fitting punishment. Consider it a practice run.”

Soundwave lets out a low, trembling whimper, almost inaudible except to Jazz’s specialized sensors, and nods. “Soundwave: will obey.”

“Good. When you get there, you may explore the room. You are not to use the washracks or any of the cleaning facilities - they are, for now, off-limits without my express permission. You are not to attempt to leave the room. You are not to hide from me when I arrive - I want you on your knees in the center of the room when I enter, and I will see have enough warning to get there. If you are good, I will give you a full ration of energon tonight. If you are very good, I will let you use the washracks.” Jazz grins. “I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you? A chance to feel clean again after all these months?”

The carrier nods reluctantly, but his field gives away his interest. “Soundwave: would be grateful. Soundwave: will do as is expected of him.”

“Good boy.” The edge of field that he brushes over the cowed mech is taunting, almost mocking, and he can feel the other mech recoil with humiliation. “I told Prime you’d be easy to tame to hand… All the hard work is already done, after all.”

Jazz rises as the carrier’s field flushes with shame, stepping away from the berth and out into the hall with those unkind words. Behind him, he can feel the mech begin to shake with terrified sobs. coming apart as the worst of the stress leaves him in a sudden rush, and then the door swings shut and Ratchet’s at his side.

“That’s what you’re planning?”

Jazz glances up in surprise. “You were watching?”

“It’s my Primus-damned medbay. I watch if I want.”

“I know - I don’t mind. I had just thought… you didn’t want to watch the videos with me and Prime. I know you’re a bit… light-tanked when it comes to stuff like this; hadn’t expected you to want to watch for real.”

Ratchet growls in irritation, flicking a hand to the black and white interrogator’s chest, caressing the edge of a plate. “Not a damn thing I could do about what happened in those videos - I had already seen everything, was welding the damage back together as we spoke. No point in watching it. But this… You know I would have killed you, right?”

“What?” Jazz freezes, and he’s suddenly very, very aware of the faint, thin edge of Ratchet’s scalpel - not extended, not threatening, even, except in light of the medic’s words. Just there;, tucked away where they always are beneath his hands, but suddenly dangerous. Threat protocols kick in, calculating ways to disarm Ratchet with lethal efficacy - it takes a moment, still-faced and tense, to redirect it to non-lethal methods, and another to make it stop entirely. Jazz lets his empty hand rise, non-threatening, and stares the medic down.

After a long, deliberate moment, Ratchet’s hand slips away. The two continue to meet each other’s optics, tension snapping between them - Jazz is stony-faced, but Ratchet meets it with a look of cold clarity that is intimidating even to the interrogator.

“Not for him.” The medic gestures to the door of the medical suite, voice quiet. “Prisoner of war, and you’ve got something you’re working on with him, and I hate it and I hate you for making me a part of it - but I can understand it. I’ve lived the war same as you. But that?”

He gestures with a careless air at the avian still-nestled in Jazz’s other hand.

“I had to know if you’d hurt her. Whatever you want from that mech, you could get it using his symbionts, you know it, I know it, he knows it, and I had to know you wouldn’t use it, because they are innocent in any of this. Their carrier went off to war, and they had no choice but to follow.”

“I understand that, Ratchet.” Jazz’s voice is soft, calming.

“I know you do. And… I hate not being able to trust you. I’m… I’m sorry. But I had to know.”

“I understand that, too.” This time, it’s Jazz that reaches out, pulling the medic into a tight embrace. “It’s okay, Ratchet. Do what you need to to reassure yourself - I don’t blame you after…” He trails off, hesitating. “I could tell you what I have planned, if you want. Over energon? I know what I’m doing tomorrow, at least - would knowing that help you handle this better?”

Ratchet slumps forward a little, faint tremors suddenly clear in his frame as he sags into the touch. ::Please.:: He lets the word trickle across comms, and Jazz can tell it’s because he doesn’t trust his voice.

“Let me put this little mech back with her siblings, then, and we’ll go, okay?” First Aid pops the door to medical holding when he approaches, casting a worried glance over Jazz’s shoulder even as he takes Laserbeak carefully from his hands.

::He okay?::

::Yeah, I’ve got it.::

Jazz slips back to the older medic’s side, pushing him carefully towards the door to his own room, attached to the medbay by a narrow, brightly-lit hall.

Chapter Text

Oh Primus. Oh Primus. Oh Primus.

The killer is smiling at him.

Soundwave desperately presses back against the medical berth, the magnetic field holding him, once a mere pulsing presence against his plating, now a chain twisting around him and pinning him before the monster’s roving optics. Soundwave can’t hold back the sob that forces itself out of him, nor the shudders of terror that shake his frame - held like this, he feels desperately exposed, vulnerable in a way that not even the last three months of abuse had made him.

There’s no way he’ll be able to endure this mech. There’s no - why even bother fighting, there’s no way he’ll be able to endure. And that’s the best he could hope for, even in a perfect world - to endure, to survive, against this overwhelming predator who looks at him with a lazy grin that could eat him whole.

Soundwave offers up what desperate, silent apologies he can to his comrades, and prays to Primus that the information he has is useless, that it will not result in the deaths of those few mechs amongst the Decepticons he still cares about when it is ripped from his helm and his lips by the beast before him.

Jazz stands there, staring at him. It’s unnerving, and Soundwave wants to shutter his optics - but then he won’t see the first blow when it falls, won’t have any warning when the first jagged strip is torn from his plating, and that thought keeps his optics wide and bright.

The flicker of comms chatter, silent and practiced, fills the air, a quiet awareness in the back of the carrier’s processor, but he pays it little note.

Then Jazz’s attention seems to snap back to him, and a single word falls from his lips:

“Designation?”

It takes Soundwave a moment to realize that it’s a question, his interrogator’s voice cool and sharp. It takes another moment to realize that this, at least, is an answer he can give - he’s permitted by the rules of warfare to offer his name, faction, and rank to a captor or enemy officer who demands it.

And, as much as he wants to hold out, to be strong even in the face of what’s coming, Soundwave can’t help but desperately, desperately want to have another few moments free of pain, another few moments whole and intact before he’s torn apart again.

“Soundwave,” he whispers, and it feels like surrender.

Jazz, who, as pinned as he is, towers over him, leans in, face pressing close to Soundwave’s, and he can’t help a moan at the vent of warm air against his chassis, the faint too-closeness of the other mech’s field. It takes a moment to realize what the silent mech wants, blue optics regarding him with all the cold compassion of a sharkticon - but he catches on, and repeats himself, shaking voice as loud as he can make it even as he hates how weak he sounds.

“S-soundwave. Decepticon Officer, Second Class, Mid- to Long Range Communications.”
Jazz seems amused by his easy surrender. The other mech straightens, giving him room, and Soundwave lets himself tremble, unsure whether to remain still or brace for the first punishing blow, but neither comes, only a rolling chuckle.

“Soundwave, huh? Sound/wave.” Jazz says the name with a mocking lilt, and Soundwave feels his field flare with indignation at the glyphs he’s been assigned - slave and pet and toy. Just as urgently, he stamps it down, frightened that the other mech might have felt it, might view it as some kind of effort at defiance or resistance - and the feeling of defeat, of being utterly defeated, swells in his spark.

There’s nothing he can do to resist the other mech. There’s nothing he can do but surrender, and pray for death to come quickly once the last information that interests the Autobots has been dragged from him, and hope that he won’t be kept alive to amuse the interrogator further. The twisted name cuts at him, and he shudders, accepting it despite himself, because in the end, it’s not wrong - he’s nothing more than a slave, now, something for the other mech to use and degrade and disassemble as he pleases.

Jazz looks down at him with an inscrutable gaze, optics bright behind his visor, and speaks again.

“Soundwave.”

This time, the name is barely modified, glyphs clear and crisp - unchanged except for one: prisoner in the place of officer. It runs across his audials with such relieving clarity that Soundwave can’t help but let a flicker of relief into his field, and he looks up at Jazz with desperate hope, hope that maybe, maybe he won’t be forced to confront his own pitiful state every time he says his own name, might be spared at least that small humiliation.

“Soundwave,” Jazz says again, and Soundwave wants to curl up and sob with relief, with exhausted surrender, and beg the mech to call him that again and again. He shouldn’t be this tired, he knows it, it’s only been a few minutes since the mech entered the room, but he feels flayed-open and vulnerable and so, so weak, and all he wants to do is give in and escape the coming pain.

“So, Soundwave - beautiful designation, by the way - what should we call the cassettes?”

The words are enough to make Soundwave nearly shut down with panicked fear.

They have the cassettes. He knew that, knows that, it’s obvious that Jazz would never accept a victim without also taking the things that made him most vulnerable - and down the bonds, weak and guttered as they are, he knows that the cassettes have been repaired as he was, are no longer piles of metal scrap and warped frame and protomass and pain. It should be a relief - and yet now, facing down the peerless torturer of the Autobot Prime, Soundwave finds himself wishing, against code, against instinct, that they had died at Starweave’s hands, that some torture or another had gone too far and guttered their sparks, that the mech, in his ignorance, had killed them one by one as Soundwave screamed and begged.

It would be better than gazing up, helpless, at a mech he knows will be able to keep them alive as he drives them to new extents of agony, who will be able to make them suffer like Starweave never could.

There’s only one thing that can protect them, now, only one hope they have, and it goes against everything he is, every ounce of carrier coding that drives him to see them as equals and make others see them as equals. After all, why bother truly torturing something that has no soul, no mind of it’s own? Beat it, as Starweave had, brutalize it to cause the mech controlling it pain, but true inventive torture? Worthless, against such a thing.

Soundwave barely keeps his voice from cracking as he speaks.

“Cassettes: Drones. Designations: unnecessary.”

It’s obvious the moment he says it that Jazz doesn’t believe him, that the dangerous mech already knows that it’s a lie. The interrogator’s visor flashes, field turning bright with sudden, eager victory as he leans in to hover inches from Soundwave’s face.

Soundwave instinctively attempts to close his battlemask, desperately hoping for some protection from the other mech, even though he knows it’s only psychological. It clicks uselessly, retractive motors whirring ineffectually, and it takes him a moment to realize that, unlike the rest of him, the mask hasn’t been replaced - the ports have been mended, and a cap placed over the damage to keep out dust and grime, but the Autobots haven’t restored that scant protection, and it makes him feel suddenly, crushingly vulnerable.

There’s a burst of pleasure, a soft, gentle touch along the exposed sensors, and Soundwave writhes beneath the black and white mech’s frame, desperate to get away from the fingers exploring the damage, but it’s useless, and the berth’s magnetic field allows only the barest of struggles. The touch continues, unrelenting and delicate, and he whimpers pathetically - despite his fear, despite the desperate desire to escape the other mech’s attentions, it feels good.

He doesn’t notice how close Jazz is until the mech is pressed against him, whispering “Liar.” softly in his audial.

Then the mech is gone, the movement sharp and fast as he steps back, and Soundwave can only watch and wait as he circles, the pit of fear in his spark growing as if to consume him as he’s left waiting for punishment.

The soft tap of a finger against his helm has him refocusing, pulling back from the terror that threatens to drag him into unfocused panic, and he focuses on the interrogator’s words as he speaks, even though his words are enough to make the carrier want to sob and beg for mercy, for some kind of pity that he knows the other mech will never offer.

“We know they’re proper mechen, same as you or I - spark, frame, mind. It would be nice to have designations, something to call them when they online - keep them nice and calm so they don’t have to be restrained… Of course, if you don’t want to tell me, I’m sure the first of them to online will… They’ll catch on that we know that they’re full-sparked soon enough, I’m sure.”

The implications of his words, the sudden realization that even the best of his lies would not have been enough to save his clade, is crushing, but all he can do is attempt to protect them, even now. The symbionts, clever as they are, know better than to tell a captor their designations, will deny to the end their sentience in the face of a captor who may or may not know that they’re living, thinking beings - he’s the only one who can spare them that torture, who can protect them, now.

"No, please: wait." He stares up at Jazz, and the mech seems to have listened; his optics are bright and focused behind the visor. "Quadruped: Ravage. Fliers: Laserbeak; smaller, Ratbat. Mechkin: Rumble, Frenzy."

Jazz seems pleased by the information, smirks down at him with an amused field, and Soundwave, weighing his options, decides to take a risk, praying it won’t backfire on his cassettes.

"Please: Status?"

Jazz laughs, and the sound is cruel and sharp. "You want to know how your little guys are doing? Why don't you see for yourself?" The flicker of a comm catches Soundwave’s attention, and then the door slides open and a tall, pale blue mech steps inside, poised and alert.

It’s what’s in his hands that makes Soundwave choke, fans clicking and resetting as he stares, horrified, at the limp form of Laserbeak.

She’s alive, he can tell down the bond - the mech holding her hasn’t harmed her yet, there’s no pain, not even alertness, and after a moment, he realizes that she must be stasis-bound, the weakness of the guttered bonds having made the state impossible to detect without first seeing her. His fingers twitch with irrepressible need, the need to hold her, to reassure himself that she is well and whole and unbroken, the need to open the bond and awaken her and feel her against his spark - but he can do nothing more than gaze at her desperately, unwilling to risk calling out to her and chance making one of the other mechs decide to use her against him in her defenseless state.

The blue mech hands her to Jazz and slips away, gone as quietly as he had come. Jazz holds her with the same delicacy with which he had stroked Soundwave’s missing battlemask, examining her wings with a focused attention that makes the carrier want to grab her and hide her from the mech’s blue gaze, fingers toying loosely with her fragile crest and brushing over her beak. When he strokes the sensitive spot on her back that Soundwave knows would have a conscious Laserbeak cooing and begging to be cuddled, he can’t hold back a whimper of need.

Jazz glances up and refocuses on him, and Soundwave feels a chill - but at least the mech is no longer looking at Laserbeak like that, like she’s a toy or a tool or prey.

"Relax, little mech. I'm not going to hurt her. Just want to get a good look... after all, they're so delicate. Beautiful, really..." Jazz grins at him, and the full implications of the mech’s words sinks in and fills Soundwave’s spark with lead. Laserbeak, after all, is so, so delicate, and Jazz’s fingers are wrapped around her just so, and it would take so little for his beautiful, beautiful symbiont to lose her wing to those blue optics and that feral, feral smile.

But Jazz doesn’t do it, doesn’t add that last little bit of force that would take the sky from her forever and damage her far beyond Soundwave’s ability to repair, and the fingers pull away.

"Would you like to hold her? I'm not gonna break her, honest, but I suppose I can give you a minute or two to reassure yourself..." Jazz’s voice is steady, words easy, as if he doesn’t hold Soundwave’s whole world in the palm of a single hand, as if he’s not offering everything that the carrier could possibly want at this single moment in time. Soundwave doesn’t know how to reply, doesn’t know what the interrogator wants from him or how he’ll react to whatever answer the carrier offers, but apparently, he doesn’t need to - Jazz’s hands are careful as they lay Laserbeak across his chest, wings outstretched and reaching almost shoulder to shoulder as she covers him, her helm close enough to his that, even restrained, he might be able to bend his neck and kiss her.

Soundwave stares up at Jazz, confused, hesitant, and whimpers when he feels the pulse of the magnets holding his hand down fade away. He hesitates, uncertain how to deal with this sudden, unexpected… kindness? Generosity? It’s almost more frightening than the thought of pain, the certainty that Jazz will turn on him - or worse, Laserbeak - making his spark twist.

Still… She’s so close, and his hand rises to caress her back, gently running down the thin welds holding her plating together. She’s been repaired, and well, as well as Soundwave would have. The extent of the damage is far greater than he expected, and it’s suddenly clear how close she had actually come to deactivation - another beating, another round of torture at Starweave’s merciless hands, and she wouldn’t have survived.

Soundwave glances up again, meeting Jazz’s optics, seeking answers there. He can’t escape the rush of gratitude towards the other mech, even knowing that deactivation might have been the more merciful option - Laserbeak is alive, and repaired, and without the torturer’s intervention, she would not be.

The Autobot offers him another smirk, but this one almost seems gentle. He reaches out, and Soundwave doesn’t fight the instinctive urge to block him, to protect Laserbeak from his touch, but Jazz pulls back, giving him space, and his voice is smooth and calming when he speaks.

“I’m not going to take her away yet, mech. Just wanted to touch.”

Soundwave doesn’t want to allow it. He wants, with the urgent press of need, to hide her, to shelter her and keep this dangerous, cruel mech away from her, but he can’t, and resisting will only anger the currently placid torturer. Soundwave lets his hand fall, and Jazz reaches out and strokes a wing with more care than the carrier would ever have expected.

His voice crackles, but he doesn’t let that stop him from speaking, from pleading with the other mech. “Please: don’t harm her. Soundwave: will not resist, attempt escape.” He hesitates, knowing his next words are a lie, but the thought of abandoning the secrets he has suffered so long to protect churns his tanks and makes his spark ache. “Soundwave: has no information of value to Autobot Jazz.”

Jazz laughs, like Soundwave knew he would. There’s no way such a famed interrogator would fall for such a pitiful lie, the last, clinging retreat of a mech who knows that he’s lost utterly. “No information? A comms officer? You lot know everything… codes, locations, plans... I very much doubt that there’s nothing I could get out of you.”

The torturer’s fingers dance along the edge of Laserbeak’s wing again, and Soundwave feels a flood of terror as he realizes what that last shred of vanity may have cost, feels himself begin to tremble at the overwhelming fear of what’s to come as Jazz gazes down at him. Terror builds with no vent, and he’s on the very cusp of falling apart completely when Jazz’s fingers slip away from the avian’s wings and scratch gently at the sensitive joint where wing meets chassis.

“Fortunately, that’s not why I’m here.” Soundwave shudders at the sudden sound of the interrogator’s voice, entire body tight as a wire. “Whatever little secrets you’ve got rattling your processors aren’t worth my time. M’ not here to torture you, mech.” The press of those slim fingers brushing over hands makes Soundwave jerk back, only the need to keep Laserbeak steady keeping him from really struggling as the impact of the torturer’s words sinks in.

Not worth his time. Valueless, useless to the Autobots - and suddenly keeping the secrets he has held so long seems like the least important thing in the world, and Soundwave wants desperately to tell the other mech anything, anything that will make him too useful to discard.

He has nothing that valuable. He knows it - knows that there is too little potential in months-old codes and bits of gossip to keep him and his clade alive - and all he can wonder is why he’s still active, why he and the cassettes have been repaired, when those repairs must have been costly in time and resources and effort, and what the mech standing above him could possibly, possibly want.

There’s nothing to do but ask, even if the thought of it makes his voice shake and his optics flicker. Why would they hide it, after all? What could he possibly do?

“Query: Why is Autobot Jazz here, then? Jazz: too highly ranked to waste time with low-value prisoners…” Soundwave trails off, stroking Laserbeaks head, the reassurance of that small gesture - the fact that he’s even being allowed it - all the comfort he has.

Jazz grins, head tilting to the side, and the predatory look in his optics is back. His field teeks his amusement at the question, savage and bright, and Soundwave quavers at his reply.

“Well, Optimus - Prime - has a little issue he needs cleared up. A mech who suffered a Pit of a lot of torture at the hands of one of his base commanders, at the hands of a mech who should have known better - and wouldn’t you know it, but the mech who clears up problems like this one? Me.” Jazz grins down at him, and Soundwave feels a low thrum of panic at being described as a ‘problem’ by a mech who could so easily kill him. “So you’re my ‘responsibility’ now. Prime’s given me carte blanche - I can do whatever I want with you and your cassettes, as long as his problem goes away.”

Oh.

Oh.

The meaning of the twisted glyphs the interrogator had used earlier clears, slave/pet/toy suddenly far too literal for the defenseless carrier. This mech, this brutal, terrifying mech, is his master now - no goals, no need to preserve his life or sanity or frame, just his own capricious will keeping Soundwave and his clade alive for his amusement. Carte blanche, from the Prime himself.

Fingers brush along the edge of his optics, and he waits for the gouge, for half his vision to vanish and darken into pain.

“I’m not going to hurt you, though.” Jazz’s voice is soothing, a cruel, calming melody that feels like the cold burn of acid rain against his plating, and no pain comes. “Or your little crew, as long as you don’t try anything - they’ll be treated well, as long as you continue to comply with me. Energon, shelter, safety, repairs - all you have to do is play along. That sound acceptable to you, carrier?” It’s a lie, of course - he knows it, he knows that it’s only the mech’s way of wringing a little more suffering out of him before he gets bored - but what can he do? Rebellion will get him nowhere, win him nothing except pain - compliance, obedience, grovelling might sustain him, might amuse Jazz enough to keep him alive.

And Soundwave is too tired to rebel anymore.

“Soundwave: will tell Jazz anything. Please.” He hears his own voice crack, but can’t even bring himself to care. “Cassettes: innocent, know nothing of use to Autobots that Soundwave does not. Soundwave: will tell Jazz whatever he asks.”

Jazz laughs. “Tell me? Nah… You weren’t listening earlier, were you? You have nothing I want. But I’m not gonna offline you for not being worth my time - so long as you’re a good little mech who does what he’s told, I won’t harm you or your clade.”

Soundwave looks up at him, optics dim, the world around him distant, and remembers. Worthless. Pet. He offers what submission he can, too exhausted to even mind debasing himself further before the mech, and twists his own name as Jazz had, affirming his place before the other mech:

“Sound/wave: will obey. Sound/wave: belongs to Autobot Jazz now. Sound/wave: understands.”

“Soundwave,” Jazz says the name, and pauses - it’s the one he’s been using, officer-but-prisoner, and he says it with enough force that Soundwave can’t help but tremble in relief. At least the other mech still doesn’t want that submission of him - whether it’s a mercy towards Soundwave, or simple disinterest in listening to such grovelling submission, the carrier can’t bring himself to care. “Will do just fine, I’m sure. You seem like a strong mech, and clever enough - I’m sure that you’ll make a fine little distraction.” The praise is hollow against the knowledge that that’s truly all he is to the other mech - a distraction, a toy.

Jazz gently strokes Laserbeaks back, fingers spread to push against the sensitive strips that would have her chirring in pleasure were she awake. It’s the one thing that reassures Soundwave - for all the potential pain in his future, the other mech has not yet hurt the cassette. However, that isn’t enough to stop his hand from tightening when the interrogator slips his fingers under her chassis and tries to lift her away

“Please -”

“No. She was an incentive, nothing more - you don’t get to keep her. Perhaps, if you’re very, very good, you’ll earn that right. Now, let me take her, or I won’t let you see any of them for a week. Either way I’ll have her back.” Jazz’s blue optics are cold, his voice harsh, and Soundwave withers at the cold dismissal. Sentient mecha or not, it seems that the Autobot regards her as little more than a tool to use against her carrier, and it rankles, but there’s nothing he can do about it.

Still, the black and white mech’s last words are enough to hook his attention - a threat, yes, but also a hint that he might be allowed to see them, and soon, if he obeys and plays a good little pet for the interrogator.

He lets his hand drop. There’s nothing to fight anymore, no point in resisting - especially not if there’s a chance to see another one of his beautiful, mended, living symbionts again if he doesn’t.

Jazz lifts her carefully, and Soundwave watches like a hawk. The Autobot’s strange gentleness, so uncharacteristic of this supposedly brutal mech, continues, however, the almost soft way he holds Laserbeak, tucking back her wings and turning her helm so she won’t be injured. It’s surprising, and Soundwave can’t help but wonder at what the other mech is thinking, what sort of alien mercy might be in him that the same hands said to rip mech’s sparks out whole would be so careful with the cassette. It’s not comforting, not exactly, but the carrier can’t help but cling to it as a scrap of hope - if he’s to be the toy of a monster, at least let it be one who’s kind to his cassettes.

When Laserbeak is at last curled away, held almost cuddled against the blue-and-red of Jazz’s chest, the other mech remagnetizes the medical berth, and Soundwave has barely a moment to notice the pulse of the e-mags recycling before his arm is slammed down against the surface with a clang. It doesn’t hurt, merely startles him, and he lets himself relax as much as he can, not fighting the restraints as Jazz addresses him.

“The mech who brought your little symbiont - his name is Mirage. He’ll be along in a little bit, to take you to more suitable corridors - Ratchet isn’t happy about me playing with my toys in his medbay.” Soundwave casts his thoughts back to the red-and-white medic, and can’t help but agree at the thought of the whispered warnings the mech had offered. “You’re to obey his orders without question, understood? He’s my direct subordinate, and he will be reporting your behavior to me - and, should you prove disobedient, I will be devising a fitting punishment. Consider it a practice run.”

The thought of a punishment at Jazz’s hands is terrifying, and Soundwave lets his field teek his fear and submission as he responds. “Soundwave: will obey.”

“Good. When you get there, you may explore the room. You are not to use the washracks or any of the cleaning facilities - they are, for now, off-limits without my express permission. You are not to attempt to leave the room. You are not to hide from me when I arrive - I want you on your knees in the center of the room when I enter, and I will see to it that you have enough warning to get there. If you are good, I will give you a full ration of energon tonight. If you are very good, I will let you use the washracks.” Jazz grins down at him, but Soundwave is too busy processing his words to care to respond until he’s prompted again. “I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you? A chance to feel clean again after all these months?”

Yes. Yes, oh Primus yes, he’d like that, a chance to wash away the sensation of fear and the numb coldness of the cells and the phantom feeling of his own energon staining his plating. To be clean, to be fed? Worth whatever degradation Jazz has planned for him. Nevertheless, he shoves the desperate want away, controlling all but the faintest of interest, and nods, trying to hide his eagerness: “Soundwave: would be grateful. Soundwave: will do as is expected of him.”

“Good boy.” Jazz’s field brushes up against Soundwave, mocking, and the carrier feels a rush of cold humiliation - months and months of torture, and this mech, this monster, has broken him in a single day, in less than a few hours, to the point where he’s willing to simper and scrape for rewards, to the point where he’s willing to let himself be treated like a pet at the thought of a hot washrack and the chance - the possibility! - that he might be able to see his symbionts. Some Decepticon. Some warrior. Some carrier, to fail his clade so disappointingly.

Jazz’s next words are no more comforting than his field, taunting and unkind, and they make Soundwave tremble with their truth:

“Good boy. I told Prime you’d be easy to tame to hand… All the hard work is already done, after all.”

Jazz turns, and strides with easy, even paces out the door, Laserbeak still held against his chassis, as Soundwave loses the fight against his own exhaustion and fear and begins to sob helplessly, tries to curl in on himself only to be held open and exposed by the very berth beneath him. The room’s lights flicker and dim, and he allows himself, alone at last, to fall apart.

Chapter Text

“Hello?”

Soundwave’s optics shoot open at the quiet, reserved voice that wakes him from the light half-recharge that he had finally drifted into when his body could no longer take the stress of fear. The room is dim, the bright white lights at half-power - a mercy on his still calibrating optics, but it makes it hard to focus on the leggy, pale-blue mech standing at the door.

It takes a moment to recognize him, and another to remember the name Jazz had offered.

“Designation: Mirage?”

The mech steps forward gracefully, with a nod.

“Of course. I’m here to escort you to a more permanent living space - Jazz told you, I’m sure?”

Soundwave nods, Mirage’s cool tone and calm demeanor bleeding away the stress of his terrifying encounter with the mech’s commander. He debates saying something, breaking the silence, but decides against it - Mirage doesn’t seem to be waiting for him to speak, and there’s no point in starting a conversation that he might very well not like the end of.

“Here.”

The almost casual way the berth’s magnetic field is dismissed surprises Soundwave, the sudden freedom unexpected - not without, at least, some other restraint or binding. Hesitating long enough for the pale mech to give him an order, if that’s his intent, Soundwave slowly rises from the berth, pulling himself up to sit atop it as Mirage watches, inscrutable. The pale mech doesn’t seem interested in hurting him, though - and when Soundwave has pulled himself up fully with a little wince, he leans in with a concerned look.

“Are you injured? Anything hurting that shouldn’t? Ratchet isn’t around, but I can have one of the other medics come if there are any problems they should know about. Jazz would be… annoyed, were I to deliver you to him damaged.”

“Soundwave: is not in pain. Soundwave: feels whole.” He lets his field pulse gratitude, and Mirage smiles, and places a hand on his shoulder.

“Let me help you up?”

There’s a substantial amount of wavering involved, but eventually Soundwave is on his feet, and Mirage steps in front of him again. He feels a sudden rush of embarrassment - too weak to even stand on his own, ha - but there’s neither pity nor amusement in Mirage’s calm field as he holds out his hand for the carrier’s own.

Soundwave still hesitates before offering it, but when he does, Mirage only hoops a cuff over it before reaching for the next. Mirage tugs the cuffs lightly before clipping a chain onto them - a lead. The pale blue mech tugs it again, and Soundwave takes a step forward and is rewarded with another smile.

"You're being very well behaved. Thank you for that..."

Soundwave hesitates, ducking his head in uneasy acknowledgement of the praise. "Jazz: promised that clade would be cared for, if Soundwave is obedient. Soundwave: will do as he is told, if it will protect them. Jazz: will punish Soundwave, if Mirage reports disobedience."

And that thought scares him more than anything. The pale mech has so much power here - and it would be so easy for him to turn it on Soundwave, to force him to do... whatever the other mech wants, really. It would no doubt be better than taking whatever tortures Jazz might devise to punish a disobedient slave - at least Mirage is unlikely to damage him in any way that would show.

"Oh." There's a strange look in Mirage's eyes as he reaches out, running a thumb down Soundwave's cheek. "I'm not going to use that against you, you know. I've been amongst Decepticons before, I know how you lot treat each other - but I promise, I'll be honest when I report to Jazz. I would never lie to him."

The assurance, so easily offered, means little, a promise to a slave worth nothing more than Mirage's own honor. Still, that it's offered at all is more than he expected - and Mirage has a steady sincerity to him that makes Soundwave almost want to believe that it's true.

"Come along, Soundwave. It's not too far, but you'll probably want a chance to settle in before Jazz returns..."

Soundwave follows him to the door, stumbling a little as he gets used to walking for the first time in months. Before he can fall, Mirage has a steadying hand on his shoulder, and it stays put as they begin to make their way out of the medbay, keeping the carrier upright as much as his own two pedes.

The hall, when they reach it, is empty, and it's nothing like what he expected of the Autobot base - clean, bright, and spacious, and not at all like the forbidding tunnels and dark corners he had expected of an underground fortress. It makes sense - for all they're terrifying, there's no reason the Autobots would want to live in the sort of space that's haunted his nightmares since the start of his captivity - no reason that their living spaces would be anything like the cells that he had been caged in. Still, it's unnerving to walk down the bright halls in chains, bared to the mocking optics of anyone who might pass by, and exposed to any mech who might decide to take a swing at an enemy soldier unable to defend himself.

Mirage doesn't rush him, guiding him around the corner and to the elevator in silence. The doors ping open -

- and Soundwave flinches back from the three mechen currently staring out at him. He nearly stumbles, optics bright with surprise and more than a touch of panic, but Mirage is there to steady him, and pushes him into the elevator even as Soundwave absently notes the sudden flare of comms.

He's pressed suddenly between the other four mechen, and it's terrifying. The largest, a dusty red frontliner, towers over him, and he's carrying enough firepower to vaporise Soundwave where he stands. He gazes down at the carrier with deep blue optics, and Soundwave desperately wants to vanish - especially when the other two mechen, a grey-and-red mech and a yellow minibot, meet him with the same curious look.

Over his head, the silent conversation continues, and Soundwave does his best to not show the fear he's feeling, flattening his field as best he can. In such close quarters, he can hardly help but teek the other mechen, but their fields aren’t full of the menace he expects - the frontliner’s has a pulse of anger to it, but also concern, and the other two newcomers simply seem interested, not even surprised by his presence.

Behind him, Mirage’s field, smooth as glass, is as much a comfort as anything.

It doesn’t take long before the elevator slows to a stop. The doors ping, and the other three mechen push past him. The yellow minibot turns back, waving to Mirage as he follows the frontliner down the hall, almost jogging to keep up with the massive mech’s long strides, and the doors slide shut with a whirr of motors.

Soundwave crumples to his knees, and he can’t fight the desperate sobs that boil over and out of him as the tension leaves his body, limp and loose as a cut cord.

Mirage reacts in moments, punching a button on the elevator before dropping down beside him. A warm hand presses into his shoulder, holding and grounding him, and the pale mech’s voice whispers soft hushes in his audial.

Soundwave can’t help but fall into the touch, can’t resist the gentle appeal of being comforted by the other mech. Mirage is gentle, and he waits patiently until the carrier is calm enough to listen before speaking.

“Sh… sh, Soundwave. It’s alright, let it out, it’s fine - the elevator is stopped, I’ve locked it, no one is going to come in. No one is going to hurt you, Soundwave, you’re safe, take as long as you need… I’m so sorry for springing that on you. I didn’t know they’d be in the lift, I didn’t realize that it’d scare you like that…”

It takes another few minutes before Soundwave stills, falling limp in the pale mech’s arms except for quaking shoulders and muffled sobs, but Mirage doesn’t rush him, carefully tracing the transformation seams on his back in an easy pattern that comforts the shuddering carrier with it’s simple painlessness. It’s not until even those shakes have faded into faint tremors that Mirage tries to speak to him again.

“Are you alright, Soundwave?”

Soundwave whimpers, but nods. “Soundwave: is unharmed. Soundwave: apologizes.” He can hear the shame in his own voice, the humiliation at having fallen apart so completely in front of his captor, but Mirage doesn’t sound mocking, isn’t laughing at his weakness or taunting him for his fear, and when he speaks, his words are warm and calming.

“Good. They weren’t going to hurt you, Soundwave - Ironhide, Bee, and Bluestreak are good mechen. Even if they weren’t, no one here will touch you without Jazz’s permission - he’s not the sort of mech you want to cross, and he’s made his claim on you clear.”

It’s not a thought that should be comforting, but it is - it’s something he can understand, the same as the protection that he offered his own cassettes in the Decepticon base, the deterrence of a more dangerous mech who has staked his claim on a weaker one. Soundwave lets that knowledge grow, and the distress that he had expected to feel at of other mechen knowing about his position as Jazz’s slave isn’t there - the thought of being protected, of having that sort of shelter from the common mechs who live in the base, is more comforting than anonymity.

“You held yourself together well, you know. Better than I had expected. You’ll be seeing a lot of those three, I have no doubt - but you didn’t do anything to embarrass yourself.”

The question is on his lips before Soundwave can stop it. “Soundwave: will be seeing them?”

Mirage laughs, a delicate sound tinged with relief. “Those three? Yes, of course. The big one, red? That was Ironhide. He’s the weapons specialist for this base, one of the Prime’s chief advisors, and an old friend of Jazz’s. If you’re spending time with Jazz, Ironhide will be around, I’m sure. The other two, Bumblebee and Bluestreak? They both work with me in Intelligence, directly under Jazz.”

Soundwave hesitates, the question he wants to ask on the tip of his glossa, but Mirage beats him to it.

“Would you like me to tell you about them, Soundwave? I can imagine… it must be frightening, to have to find your way in a new place like this, with so much at stake and nothing to guide you. I’ll help you, if you want…”

“Please.” His voice cracks, but Mirage doesn’t comment on it.

“Ironhide is a fair mech. He seems gruff, and he is, and he can be crude and aggressive, but he won’t hurt anyone who can’t defend themselves. If something happens to you, and you can’t find Jazz or myself, he’ll help you, I’m sure - at the very least, you’ll be safe with him.” He waits until Soundwave has nodded his understanding before continuing. “Bumblebee is an infiltrator - he doesn’t involve himself in any of the more… gruesome… aspects of Intelligence work. He’s too nice for his own good. So is Bluestreak - he’s got a lot of energy, but not a cruel strut in his frame.”

He pauses again, looking down at the trembling, frightened mech in his arms, and vents gently. “You were never in any danger from them, Soundwave. None of them would have hurt you, and I would have protected you if they had tried. Jazz would have protected you - he wouldn’t let another mech challenge him like that.”

When Soundwave says nothing, laying quietly in his arms, Mirage rises, and the carrier obediently staggers to his feet with him.

“It’s not far, Soundwave, just down the hall. I can’t promise that no one will be out and about, but I will not let them harm you - just let me guide you, and do as I say. Can you do that?”

Soundwave nods, and when the door pings open, he lets Mirage push him out into the hall.

It is empty, mercifully so, and they make their way down it slowly enough to allow Soundwave to find his own balance. Mirage only taps his shoulder, directing him down a side hall, and they’re soon at a pair of doors, identical and tucked away together in a little cubbyhole.

Mirage directs his attention to the rightmost door first.

“That’s Jazz’s room. He keeps this one -” he points to the left, “as a spare for his own use - usually for agents who’ve just come back from missions that went bad, who can’t be left unmonitored yet. It isn’t needed often, so he’s having you put up here instead - the rooms ajoin, and it’s designed to be locked down and secured if the mech inside isn’t allowed out unmonitored.” He keys the door, and beckons Soundwave inside.

It’s not a large suite, but it’s not small either - nowhere near the cramped cell the carrier was expecting, and in fact, not far at all from the tight quarters offered to low-ranked officers amongst the Decepticons. It’s barren, though - the walls are a deep, reassuring orange, but beyond that, there’s only a berth, a small table, and a chair in the main area. Behind an open door in the back, he can see a washrack, large enough for at least two mechen, and there’s another door that can only lead to Jazz’s suite - but that’s it.

Mirage pushes him gently towards the berth, but Soundwave barely even feels a flicker of fear towards the mech who could so easily choose to abuse him, could still so easily pin him down and force him to obey - he settles down on the edge of the berth with a soft groan of relief, and Mirage kneels before him, carefully undoing the first cuff.

The rush of energon to his servos is painful, the cables in his hands twisted from the tightness of the restraints - not too tight, not enough to have hurt, but enough to have choked off more than a little flow from the strange angle they forced on his wrists.

Mirage wraps his fingers around the freed wrist and squeezes, and Soundwave can’t help the little gasp he makes as the worst of the stinging fades. Mirage squeezes again, easing the pressure on bent fuel lines, and speaks softly to the mech before him.

“I’ve worked with Jazz for years, you know. Centuries. I could give you some advice, if you want…” Mirage’s fingers slip away as he unclips the other cuff, and steady as he massages the crimped fuel lines, the rush of staticky numbness burning bright as sensors flair and test in Soundwave’s fingers. The carrier hesitates for a moment, then ducks his head.

“Please?”

“Such good manners… Jazz will enjoy that. Try to behave yourself - he can be patient with those he chooses to take to hand, more than you’d expect, but the punishments he can give you if you push him will make you wish he had only killed you.”

Mirage falls silent for a moment, but when the last of the pain is gone, he shifts, sitting down on the berth besides Soundwave with a careful ease, and his hand slips lightly to the carrier’s knee, a reassuring point of contact.

“Don’t grovel. He’ll only find it annoying - it won’t amuse him, and a bored Jazz is a Jazz who thinks of ways to amuse himself. He’s keeping you because your fire impressed him, the fact that you held out for so long against Starweave - lose that, and he’ll get tired of you fast. That said, a little begging won’t do you any harm if you do anger him. Know your place, and you might come out of this intact.”

He pauses, waiting for the question that Soundwave can hardly bring himself to ask.

“Query: Why does Jazz intend to keep Soundwave? Soundwave: is not useful, does not have value. Jazz: has stated that he does not intend to hurt Soundwave…”

Mirage stills, and it’s obvious that this isn’t the question he anticipated. Still, he contemplates it, tracing the seam of Soundwave’s knee with a single fingertip.

“Jazz… enjoys being in control. Starweave - the mech who tortured you? - was acting without orders, overstepping his own authority. He’s dead, now - ripped to shreds. It was quick, but painful.” Soundwave doesn’t bother to hide the rush of relief that the news fills him with, nor the whimper of fear at the thought of Jazz’s black servos tearing the plating off of a writhing mech. He’s been there, the mech begging for mercy, and the thought of those same powerful fingers turning on him is enough to nearly still his spark.

“It’s alright, Soundwave. He was very, very upset, but he won’t turn that on you. Control, you understand? He won’t hurt you if you obey him, if you’re very, very careful - if he can control you, he’ll be happy. Give him that, and you and your little clade will be safe here.”

That’s more reassuring than anything Jazz has offered him, anything else he’s been told. Control is something understandable, something concrete. Control, and submission, are things that the Decepticons, too, value - and even though submitting rankles at him, if that’s really all that Jazz wants, it will be easy to offer the other mech. It’s what else he might ask that’s frightening - but then, Mirage seems confident, and the other mech works with the interrogator.

Mirage seems to follow his thoughts easily enough, and he presses calm compassion into his field, leaning in to speak softly into Soundwave’s audial.

“I shouldn’t tell you this - Jazz would be annoyed with me - but he can be a very generous mech. We both belong to him, you know - different situations, but he is my master as much as he is yours. He can be very, very good to those who serve him well.” He pauses. “Please him, and you may find yourself with more freedom than you expected.” The hand on Soundwave’s knee disappears, and Mirage finally rises, stepping back from the berth.

“I will give him a very good report on you, despite our earlier… difficulty… in the elevator. I can do that much for you - so long as you are good until he comes home, I don’t see any reason for him to punish you. He told you - and he told me to remind you - that while you are not to use the washracks without permission, you may otherwise feel free to explore these two rooms as you wish. He will trigger an alarm to go off approximately fifteen minutes before he arrives here - he wants you to present yourself in the living area, on your knees, when he arrives.” The pale blue mech steps away, heading towards the door - it’s as he crosses the threshold that he glances back across his shoulder.

“And Soundwave? Good luck.” The door slides shut as he exits, leaving Soundwave alone as the kindest mech he’s met during his captivity strides out into the bright lights of the Autobot base.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He takes the chance to look around - of course he does. The room is bare, for the most part, his initial scan fairly complete, but there are a few features that make him tremble - the rings set high on the wall, spaced just far enough apart to bring back memories of days spent suspended by his wrists as Starweave ripped into his plating, the hoops on the berth clearly designed to allow for restraints, the way the berth itself is clearly welded firmly to the floor. Still, it’s a comfortable enough space, if he can ignore his circumstances, if he can ignore the fact that his clade isn’t with him and a monster plans to use him as it’s plaything. He’s learned enough about suffering in the past weeks to know that it could be far, far worse.

The washrack, too, is spacious - compared to his quarters with the Decepticons, the shower is luxurious, wide enough for two large mechen, with a small pool tucked away out of sight around the corner that can only be intended for a hot oil bath. It makes sense, with what Mirage has told him of the room’s actual purpose - it’s obvious that the Autobots would want to offer such comforts to their returning agents - and unfilled as it is, it’s clear he’ll never get to use it, but even so, seeing the empty pool, so out of place in what is basically his cell, is enough to make his optics brighten in shock and choke a laugh from his vocalizer. It’s a nice one, too, far nicer than the ones that he occasionally could afford to bring the cassettes to on an officer’s pay; there’s a long, shallow edge around the near rim, designed for minibots and other small mechs to be able to sit on when the middle might prove uncomfortably deep, and the tile is clean and bright. With a flicker of whimsy, Soundwave allows himself to imagine his cassettes playing in it, Rumble and Frenzy splashing along the rim while Ratbat and Laserbeak float lightly over the surface, and Ravage prowls the deeps.

It’s too much, too hard to think about with the pain of their absence so sharp, and he turns and leaves the washrack with a whimper. The warm orange of the other room is calming, the dim light comforting and easy on his optics, and he shuts the door behind him, removing as best he can the temptation to go and sit in the empty pool and cry.

He wants his cohort. He wants his clade, and he wants them safe, and it rips at his spark with an all-consuming need that he can barely suppress. The guttered bonds ache, sore and painful, and with no one to distract him, no pressing fear of sudden violence to keep his focus, they’re impossible to ignore.

Soundwave sinks to his knees in the center of the room, and reaches out.

They’re all there. They’re all still whole, and not in pain, and now that he knows to look for it, it’s easy to tell that they’re all in stasis lock, that all five brilliant, beautiful sparks are only unconscious, and their dimness and distance isn’t because the bonds are failing or they are dying or he isn’t strong enough for them.

The urge to call out to them, to wake them up, to open the bonds again is pressing, an urge that he can barely resist, but he does. Another day.

Another day, at least long enough to find out if Mirage’s words are true, if the pale blue mech was right in saying that Jazz would be so easy to appease. Another day, enough time to find out which would be more painful for his bondmates, the forced distance of the guttering or the backwash of pain from Soundwave’s frame and spark and processor.

He pushes back, pulls himself away from the bonds, before he can fall victim to his own weakness and fail them, yet again, and suddenly his own exhaustion is too much to ignore. The berth is right there, and he’ll have warning when his new torturer - his new master - is going to return, and an hour or two of recharge would be enough, would be more than enough, would sharpen his processor and keep him alert when Jazz arrives -

- but then, the floor is warm, too, and kneeling isn’t so bad, really, and Soundwave can’t find the energy to even lean back as he slips into the stillness of recharge.

Chapter Text

So... yeah. I decided to rewrite this chapter completely, from the ground-up, to fit in better with the tone of previous chapters. The original was written right before my illness took a turn for the very worse, and wasn't that good - while I liked a lot of what I did with it, the writing wasn't up to snuff, and many reviewers felt (I think rightly) that Jazz lacked the danger and Soundwave the fear that characterized their previous contacts. I'll post the old chapter in an excerpts or something, but I didn't want to delete so many lovely, thoughtful comments, so this chapter entry will stay here...

Chapter Text

It’s hours later that a shrill beeping pierces Soundwave’s recharge, dragging him back into consciousness with a groan. He’s sore all over, the awkward, collapsed huddle into which he had fallen having strained his protoform and twisted cables, and it takes a moment to orient himself.

Oh.

He’s in the same room he had fallen into recharge in, collapsed against the berth. Repaired - for now. Rested - enough that he won’t fall back into recharge immediately. Energon levels - higher than they’ve been in months, but dropping.

The beeping cuts out.

It takes a moment to remember what the piercing noise meant, and when he does, terror floods through him.

Jazz is coming.

Mirage’s assurances flash through his processors, but they feel… hollow, now, with mere minutes before he will be once again pinned under the gaze of that blue visor. Memories of the other mech’s sneer, the way he so easily stripped away Soundwave’s defences, flash through his helm, and with them comes shame at the easy way he had surrendered and submitted to the torturer.

This time, he’ll be stronger.

He wants to believe it - here, feeling whole and intact and rested, he almost can believe it. But… he’s still trapped, and the thought of being pinned beneath those hands, of being torn apart again, is already enough to strip the strength from his frame and make him want to kneel and grovel before the other mech, make him want to beg for whatever mercy he can get.

A minute elapses, and then another, and Soundwave finally pulls himself to his knees.

The room around him is still dim - his exploration before he slipped into recharge provided no controls for the lights - but the darkness, in the orange warmth of the room, is calming. Against his still-sore optics, it’s gentle, bleeding away the ache along soft corners and the burnished browns of the furniture - but despite the way it makes his optics sting, he can’t focus on that, can only focus on the red light blinking besides the door.

Fifteen minutes, Mirage had said. A glance at his chronometer shows that it’s been less than six.

The red light blinks steadily, pulsing like the ache in his processor.

Everything is so stiff. He wants to get up and move, but the thought of being caught off-guard makes his tanks churn and pins him to the floor.
The red light blinks steadily, and the wires in Soundwave’s back twinge with it.

It’s quieter than he expected in the dimness of the room. There’s the faint hum of electronics, the motionless whisper of static backchatter, but none of the ever-present grumble of converters or dull throb of pulse shielding that provides the constant backbeat to life in the Decepticon base. As if the whole room is buried, deep below the surface, where only the distant echoes of the living world above can reach him.

Soundwave has never considered himself a mech prone to claustrophobia, but here, alone, he can’t help but feel forgotten.

The red light blinks steadily, and eleven minutes have passed.

The room feels like it’s shrinking.

Alone, with nothing but the silence, he wants to move, wants to make noise, wants to remind himself that the walls aren’t closing in around him - but Jazz is coming, and the fear of what the other mech might do to punish him for acting out is worse than the thought of being caged. It’s a pit of dread in his stomach, flashes of thought one-after-another of black hands ripping at his plating, of being torn apart by a laughing, blue-visored mech, of already-faded bonds flickering into nothing until his shredded spark can no longer take the strain and he drags the rest of his cohort with him into the Well.

Soundwave sits very, very still, and the red light blinks steadily.

Thirteen minutes in, the door beeps, and he shutters his optics against the bright flooding light of the hallway.

The soft, measured sound of pedefalls draws a whimper from his lips.

Jazz circles. Soundwave can feel him, a faint, staticky pressure against his field, a subtle, overwhelming presence that makes him want to shrink away. There’s nowhere to go, however, and Jazz draws closer with every moment, silent except for those steady, even steps.

Soundwave jerks back with a cry when the motion stops and a cool hand brushes across his face.

His optics shoot open, the sting of light almost blocked out by the frame of the small black-and-white mech standing over him with a smirk on his lips. Jazz looks… more amused than angered by the sudden reaction, and the smirk on his lips makes Soundwave’s tanks churn at the thought of what that look might mean.

“Hello, Soundwave. I’m pleased to see you can follow directions…”

Jazz’s hand reaches out again, and this time, Soundwave forces himself not to flee the touch, to allow Jazz to do what he wants. Those slim fingers run along his jaw, slip up his helm to stroke one of the rigid finials, before moving upward.

Soundwave whimpers as the slender fingers trace his antennae, waiting for the casual twist that will bring pain and tear the delicate sensors from his helm, but Jazz doesn’t act, doesn’t send that wave of processor-wrenching agony. Instead, the torturer… scratches?

Lightly, at the base of his antennae, but the gesture is unmistakable, the same sort of gentle petting that he might offer Ravage or Laserbeak when one of the cassettes snuggles up in his lap during the long hours on monitor duty. It feels good, a soft, pleasurable sensation that makes him want to lean into the touch - but the memory of who is touching him curdles that pleasure even as it forms, the sense of terror at the thought of those hands being so close to some of his most fragile, sensitive wiring taking away any possible enjoyment.

Still, he doesn’t resist, forced himself to stay still, and that seems to please Jazz. The torturer’s touch stays gentle, doesn’t bring the sudden, rending pain that Soundwave can’t help but brace for, and his voice, when he speaks, is teasing.

“Good mech.” The hand stills, and then slips down, lifting Soundwave’s chin until he’s forced to meet the visored optics of his captor. “I hope you weren’t waiting long. Mirage came to give me his report.”

Soundwave tenses. Despite Mirage’s promise, the tight, hissing fear - that the pale blue mech had been lying, would go to Jazz and tell him that Soundwave had disobeyed, report on his collapse in the elevator and earn him torture - is still present, twisting at his processor. Or that the other two agents - Bluestreak? Bumblebee? - had gone to him and mentioned - but no, they couldn’t have, they had been gone by the time he collapsed -

“He said that you had been very good for him, Soundwave. Behaved yourself like a good little mech, and did as you were told, no issues at all.” Jazz pauses, and Soundwave feels a flicker of disbelief, of earnest, sparkfelt gratitude towards the pale blue mech for his kindness, for sparing him. “I’m very pleased, Soundwave. I didn’t want to start our working relationship with a punishment.”

Soundwave hesitates. “Soundwave: will obey. Soundwave: does not wish for pain.”

He receives a hum in response, as if Jazz is mulling over the words. “So long as you continue to behave as well as you have, I see no reason that I would have to punish you tonight, Soundwave. On the contrary - I believe you’ve earned tonight’s ration - and a shower, when I’ve fueled you.”

His voice is calm, almost gentle, and still satisfied - but the words don’t reassure Soundwave. After all, torture can be a punishment, but it doesn’t have to be - and whatever Jazz has in store for him, Soundwave doubts that he’s going to enjoy a meal, a detailing, and some casual conversation at the hands of the Prime’s own torturer.

Still, challenging Jazz will gain him nothing - if he’s to be torn apart again, it will happen no matter how much he fights, but if Jazz truly does want an obedient toy, playing along might be enough to spare him the worst suffering.

Soundwave ducks his head in submission. Mirage had said the torturer would enjoy his manners... Gratitude, too? “Soundwave: grateful. Jazz: is very generous.”

“I can be, yes.” Jazz rises from his half-crouch, hand trailing down Soundwave’s shoulder as he lets the carrier’s helm drop and moves easily over to the table. There’s a cube there, bright pink and pure-looking, and it swirls with silver flecks as Jazz dumps a vial of additives inside, then another. He returns to Soundwave with the cube in hand, and when Soundwave meets his optics, Jazz presses the smooth edge of the cube to his lips.

Soundwave reaches for it eagerly. He’s not hungry, not yet - the little niggling desire he feels is nothing like the roaring pit that is true hunger, the burning, tank-twisting pain of starvation as his frame begins to cannibalize itself for fuel and materials - but the energon is clear and metal-rich, and unlike the medical-grade poured down his throat by the medic shortly after his waking, it looks thick and high-energy and flavorful. He wants it -

Which makes it all the more bitter when Jazz pulls it away.

The torturer stares levely down at him, terrifyingly still-faced - there’s no anger in his optics, no amused crook of his lips, no haughty sneer or enraged glare, just a vague look of… annoyance? It’s impossible for Soundwave to tell, and the inexplicability is almost worse than outright anger as he lets his hand drop. Jazz’s voice is a touch curt, the words a clear reprimand.

“Did I say you could take the cube, Soundwave?”

He drops his helm and flinches back, uncertain as to what Jazz wants from him, but the suspicion is growing - and it makes his tanks churn. Still, he has to answer, and does - a quick, anxious shake of his helm.

Jazz forces his chin up. “Then don’t. Hands in your lap. Helm up. I won’t punish you for your mistake this time - I didn’t give you any commands to the contrary - but a good pet takes energon from their master’s hand. Understand?”

Soundwave shudders, he can’t suppress the disgusted gesture at the words, but he nods. If Jazz wants to feed him like this -

- images of choking, of being choked, of gagging and struggling and poison, of white fingers forcing open his intakes until his jaw cabling creaks and he has to let them loosen or face permanent damage flash through his processor -

if Jazz wants to torture him like this, how can he refuse?

He tilts his head back, his optics sliding shuttered as his single, worthless act of defiance, and when the cube presses to his lips, he opens his mouth.

The energon is sweet. Slightly bitter, magnesium-rich, and fairly strong - it’s no high-grade, but it doesn’t have the weak effervescence of Decepticon rations, the bubbles coming across clear and bright. Distilled to potency - the sort of energon made when the mechs drinking it have plenty, don’t have to rely on bulk to stave off the growing feeling of hunger…

What that says about where the war has gone since his imprisonment is nothing good.

It trickles down his throat. Held like this, perfectly poised, there’s no need for him to swallow, not at the slow, even rate that Jazz is feeding him - and it is slow, and even, and Jazz is doing it with all the care and skill of a medic, and the thought of how many prisoners the mech must have experimented with to reach this degree of expertise at force-feeding an unwilling frame makes Soundwave want to sob.

Jazz lets out an amused purr, and Soundwave almost chokes, reminded, suddenly, that the torturer is watching him. Humiliation floods him at the thought. He knows he’s teeking fear, teeking weakness, and that the other mech can read him as easily as a data pad, and Jazz’s fingers stroke gently down the back of his throat and a soft voice whispers in his audial - “Good mech. Very good.” - and then he is choking, tanks heaving in shame and humiliation and fear as the memory of another mech whispering crueler words floods his processor, the remembered taste of oil and solvent and coolant overwhelming the sweetness, and energon spatters everywhere as he heaves.

It feels like his tanks take forever to empty. The energon cube pulls away, Jazz pulls back, and Soundwave topples forwards, onto his hands and knees, and his tanks void themselves, the energon hot enough to make his glossa hurt as it forces its way back out of him.

When at last, long last, he’s finally done, he nearly topples forward into the growing pool of his own reflux. A black hand catches him, pushes him back up onto his knees and holds him upright, and Soundwave forces his optics to unshutter and lets his gaze rise slowly, slowly, past energon-stained knees and thighs and up a spattered chest to meet the unreadable blue visor of the only thing currently supporting his sore, terrified frame.

Then his helm throbs, and he can’t focus on that inscrutable face anymore.

It hurts.

Primus, it hurts, the sudden, agonizing pounding in his helm, the soreness in his tanks, the raw scrape of his boiled intakes as they shudder with pain. Everything hurts, and what doesn’t hurt is sore, his entire frame aching and suddenly weak.

A hand squeezes the back of his neck tightly, and with a surge of relief, the worst of the pain fades.

It - Jazz - holds him like that, a hand on his shoulder, another squeezing his neck, for a few long, painless seconds. Then the hand loosens, the pain surges back -

- and Jazz squeezes again, and it dims and dies almost entirely as he adjusts his grip.

Loosens, and the pain -

- but another squeeze, and it abates again -

- and when it returns, this time, it’s less sharp -

- and Soundwave loses all ability to think, to focus on anything but that touch, that firm, merciful hand, wringing the pain from his frame with a steady pace that borders on bliss. He slumps into the touch, shuddering, and lets Jazz do as he pleases.

It’s several long, painless minutes before Jazz speaks, grip loosening.

“Hey, mech - you alright?”

Soundwave can’t help the whimper of loss, even as it makes his spark burn with embarrassment, but Jazz… Jazz’s hold tightens again, and it feels so good.

“Soundwave, are you alright?”

The question is more insistent, this time, and he forces his optics open, forces himself to meet Jazz’s unflickering gaze, and trembles at the realization of what he’s done.

“Soundwave: is functional.”

His voice cracks, and something crackles, bright but too fast to identify, in Jazz’s field.

“Soundwave: is sorry.” It’s all he can think to say. “Soundwave: did not mean to fail, disobey!”

And he can feel the building heat of hysteria, can feel the panic growing in himself like a wave he’s helpless to stop, and Jazz is still looking at him like that, not angry, not anything, and his hand is still holding Soundwave tightly and it still feels so good!

“Soundwave. Calm down.” Jazz’s voice is even, and he doesn’t sound angry either, and the touch doesn’t twist into pain, but the other mech is impossible to read, and Soundwave feels the pit of dread open up again, wants to curl up and whimper and shake at the thought of how badly he’s fragged up - such a simple task, and Starweave was dead, and Jazz hadn’t even had to hurt him to make him fall apart worse than the commander ever had.

And now…

Now he had actually done something to earn punishment, and the thought of what that might mean to the torturer leaning over him makes him want to sob.

He doesn’t, however. He chokes the fear, the terror, back, and forces back the urge to cry, until he’s only trembling, uncontrollably, and then he looks up at Jazz and Jazz laughs.

“I’m not going to hurt you yet, Soundwave.” His voice is, perhaps, a little gentle? Like a mech addressing a frightened pet turbofox - soothing, or it would be if he weren’t well aware of the dangerous mech behind the words. Still, he doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t try to run. “I just want to know what happened, for now. That was an… interesting reaction. I won’t punish you, won’t hurt you, until you’ve had a chance to explain yourself.”

Soundwave doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to bare himself further to this mech, to tell him about the memories that flash back to him like the recharge terrors of a newspark, but Jazz wants to know - and to think that he could hide the truth from this mech, a mech whose whole function revolves entirely around stripping secrets from those who want to hide them, is an impossible, foolish dream.

That doesn’t stop his voice from cracking as he speaks, though. “Starweave: often fed Soundwave like this.”

Jazz chuckles at that. “I would think you’d be better at it, then…”

The words send a flush of embarrassment through him, but Soundwave does his best to ignore it. “Starweave: ...enjoyed watching Soundwave struggle, suffer with refueling. Starweave: would feed Soundwave, symbionts curdled energon, energon mixed with oils, coolant, lubricant. Starweave: would choke Soundwave during refueling, pour too quickly to manage, take fuel away while still starving. Situation: reminded Soundwave of those instances.”

When Soundwave finally brings himself to look back up, Jazz’s optics are dark behind the mask, his amusement gone, and his field teeking dangerously. It’s too much - finally too much for him to hold back from, for him to stay put and wait for the first blow to fall - and he tries to pull back, pull away from the angry mech, but Jazz’s gentle touch has turned to steel around his antenna, and his other hand snaps out faster than Soundwave can react and pins his arm in place, smearing bright pink streaks of energon across his armor, and the memory of what, exactly, had happened to Starweave chills the energon in his veins.

Soundwave freezes, terrified, waiting for pain.

It doesn’t come, though, and Jazz’s hold slowly, slowly relaxes as he seems to realize that Soundwave is no longer struggling.

When Jazz finally speaks, his voice is gentle and controlled.

“I… apologize for frightening you, Soundwave.” The words, the thought of being apologized to by the fierce, dangerous mech before him, is unbelievable, but Jazz’s field is teeking honest intent, and there’s no hint of a lie in his frame. “I understand that there will be baggage, from your time with Starweave. He and I had many disagreements on how to handle prisoners. I won’t break you, not for the occasional… slip-up, while you find your place here.”

He pauses, choosing his next words carefully as Soundwave watches him with a rapt, wary gaze. He speaks, and it’s with that same gentle tone, but what he says sends chills running through Soundwave nonetheless, and he braces for the mech’s next words.

“With that said, what would Starweave have done to you, if you made a mess like this? What would he have done to you?”

Oh.

Soundwave wants to sob, lets one slip past his lips, a single, silent quake. The answer to that… it’s humiliating, degrading in the worst way, and the thought of being pressed down and forced to submit to it again makes his spark twist…

… and it seems like the sort of thing that Jazz might find very, very amusing.

He doesn’t want to tell him. Lying… is suicide, and he knows it, and the thought of lying to those still-grim optics is overwhelming, but skirting the truth… he doesn’t have to lie. If he’s careful, if he’s clever, he might not even have to debase himself before the other mech.

“Starweave: Would have beaten Soundwave, damaged plating, protoform. Soundwave: would not have been allowed fuel again until levels had reached critical, near stasis… Soundwave: would have been required to clean the mess.”

Jazz looks at him with those dark optics, and Soundwave feels pinned, feels like the other mech has already stripped him bare and pulled the secrets from his helm. Jazz smirks.

Pit.

“I’m not going to beat you, Soundwave. Not going to tear up your plating, and not going to rip into your protoform, either. Not tonight, not for this.” He pauses, and Soundwave doesn’t know whether to be relieved or even more afraid. He knows that Jazz can sense his confusion, and it only seems to amuse the monster more as he continues.

“I’m not going to starve you, either. My medic - Ratchet, you remember - says you’ll need full rations until your protoform finishes recovering from metal deprivation, and I do want you back in working order. So… I think the third option sounds fair, don’t you? Clean up the mess you’ve made of my floor, and we’ll go use the washracks.”

Soundwave feels despair flood through him, and when Jazz’s smirk only grows, he knows that the mech can see his humiliation, knows that he was cornered long before Jazz ever asked the question, and that just like before, he’s been trapped by his own attempt at deceit.

Jazz rises, stepping back, and pulls the chair from the desk with an easy grace. He sits on it, kicks his legs out and crosses them, reclined, relaxed, and entertained, and Soundwave stares up at him half-hoping that the mech will give him some kind of counter-order, but Jazz only watches, patient, waiting.

After a long moment, optics locked on each other, Jazz raises a hand, gesturing casually towards the mess.

“Well? I’m sure Starweave at least taught you how to clean up after yourself…”

Yes, he had, and Soundwave’s pushed enough - he can’t delay any longer, not with Jazz’s blue optics staring down on him with all the weight of an eager predator.

He bends down, drops to his hands and knees and ignores the sticky sensation of wetness as his palms press into the floor, and licks at the glistening puddle.

It still tastes good. That’s the worst part - barely-processed, cooled from the intense heat of his tanks, it still tastes as sweet and rich and good as it had the first time, and Soundwave shutters his optics at the surge of shame that fills him and tries desperately to focus on that goodness, to find some comfort in the fact that at least this is energon and not oils and coolant and lube and grit.

There’s not a lot of comfort in that thought.

Still, he can’t stop, won’t be allowed to until the floor is cleaned and Jazz is satisfied that he’s debased himself thoroughly, so he leans in for another lick, an attempt at corralling as much of the energon into his mouth as he can, getting the job done fast and well -

“Stop.”

Jazz’s voice is like thunder, and Soundwave almost topples over as he freezes, barely able to catch his balance as he struggles to figure out what’s going on, what Jazz wants from him, what new game the torturer wants to play -

“Sit up. On your knees again, Soundwave.”

He rushes to comply, optics unshuttering, and brightening with fear as Jazz rises from the chair and stalks, slowly, closer. His field is like glass, utterly, disturbingly unreadable, terrifying in how absolutely it must be controlled, and Jazz reaches for him, hand stretching out to tug or tear or slap -

Blunt fingers touch Soundwave’s face with surprising gentleness, two fingers brushing his lips and resting there, and he lets his mouth open, compliant, scared - but Jazz doesn’t shove his fingers in, doesn’t force them into his intakes until his tanks churn and choke again, and the fingers stay pressed to his lips with that same gentleness as Jazz speaks, voice tight and steady.

"It’s alright, Soundwave. There are towels in the washrack, behind the door. You may use them."

Soundwave can’t help the rush of confusion that races alongside his fear, uncertainty making him tremble as he looks up at the torturer. Jazz… is being merciful? But…

What kind of torture is being forced to lick up his own regurgitated energon - but only once? What kind of mercy is forcing him to lick up his own regurgitated energon - but only once? It makes no sense, and that’s dangerous, as dangerous as any facet of Jazz he’s seen, an unpredictable cruelty (kindness?) that makes him so, so much harder to understand.

Jazz steps back, giving him room, as Soundwave slowly, cautiously pushes himself to his pedes. The torturer does nothing to stop him as he takes one step back, then another, feeling something inside him twist and unravel in relief as he moves outside of arm’s range of the smaller mech, out of the area where Jazz might easily grab him and slam him into the ground - and then he takes another step back and now even a lunge wouldn’t be enough, it’d be at least two steps, and then another and Jazz would have to run at him, and then he’s at the door to the washracks.

It doesn’t open, and he glances up at Jazz, who’s staring at him with that same unreadable look. Jazz raises a hand, gestures at the door, and a short burst of comms has the door clicking unlocked, and Soundwave slips inside.

He lets the door swing shut - mostly, enough that he can look behind it for the towels - and nearly collapses against the wall shuddering.

He’s out of sight.

He’s hidden, as much as he can be with Jazz around the corner. He’s safe from the lethal, confusing mech, at least for the next few seconds.

Soundwave steals the moment, steals the chance, and reaches out, as quickly and delicately as he can, to his symbionts, all still clearly stasis-locked but unharmed, not in pain. He only spares a few seconds to each, lingering, perhaps, on Ratbat’s fragile link, spending an extra moment brushing the iron-strong bond, the oldest bond, that ties him to Ravage - and then he shoves them away, forces himself back to his task with what comfort he can take from the brief connection.

They’re alive. His clade is whole. This is not the worst that could be. He will survive - he will endure even if he can’t understand, because his clade survives with him.

He clutches the towels to his chest as he walks back into the main room.

Jazz has returned to the chair, lounging, though not as casually as before - his frame is tight, tensed, although he still radiates a smooth field. He watches as Soundwave kneels, as he begins to soak up the pool of now-stagnating energon in the soft meshes, and his visored gaze is a constant chafing pressure against the carrier’s plating.

Soundwave keeps working, doing his best to ignore the gaze.

It takes a little while to get all of the energon up, even with the towels, and Soundwave feels a rush of relief at the realization of how long it would have taken to clean with his tongue, even as a small part of him whimpers at seeing energon, good, pure energon, wasted and discarded, and the part of him that’s used to starving demands that he fuel, even if his energy isn’t yet so low as to need it, even if Jazz has said that he won’t starve the carrier until his protoform has recovered…

“Good enough.” Jazz’s voice distracts him from the thoughts, and he glances up.

The black and white mech rises from the chair, considering, circling the once-mess with even steps, and Soundwave freezes under the scrutiny.

Jazz hums with pleasure.

“In fact, very well done. I’m pleased, Soundwave.” The praise is surprising, and he tenses at the words - Starweave’s pleasure had only ever brought mocking, when it wasn’t bringing pain - but it brings a measure of relief, too. The job is done. Jazz is satisfied, at least for now. “Get up, then. Leave the towels, I’ll have a cleaning drone come and collect them.”

“Soundwave: understands.”

Jazz looks considering as he rises, as if he’s debating something, then turns to walk to the washrack. When he’s at the door, he turns, beckoning Soundwave along with a crooked finger. “Well? Come on…”

The carrier follows obediently, a surge of humiliation and defeat flooding his field at being led around like… like a turbofox, a tame animal. Jazz seems to taste it, optics flicking up, and the torturer reaches out and drags Soundwave down to his level when the carrier gets close, prompting a burst of panicked static from the larger mech’s vocalizer.

Jazz ignores the cry, however, fingers gently brushing over Soundwave’s antenna again. “You don’t have to be so tense, Soundwave - I’m not going to start beating on you without any warning. You’ve been good, done well, and this is your reward - I want you to enjoy it.”

Soundwave hesitates at the words, afraid to ask, but he needs to know, needs to understand if he wants to survive this strange and lethal mech. “Soundwave: has failed numerous times. Soundwave: is to be rewarded?”

Jazz laughs. “Soundwave: is to be rewarded. Starweave was an… I have never agreed with the slagger, let’s put it that way. And like I said, I was expecting baggage; what I’m demanding of you is nothing like what he did to you, and I understand that. I’m not going to punish you for fearing him.” The words are said almost soothingly, almost as if Jazz wants him to believe them.

“Soundwave: apologizes for failures. Soundwave is grateful for Jazz’s generosity, mercy. Soundwave: will improve.” His words taste bitter on his glossa, taste like oil and grime, but he offers them, and his submission, anyways, if that’s what will appease the mech standing over him.

“Good.” And Jazz does sound pleased. “Now, this,” he gestures back at the pile of rags with an airy handwave, “we’re going to work on, alright? A pet shouldn’t be afraid to take energon from his master’s hand.”

The casual tone with which he uses the degrading term makes Soundwave’s optics go bright with shame, and Jazz continues his antenna gently as his field, too, teeks his humiliation at the name.

“It’s alright, Soundwave. I’m not going to hurt you. I’ll bring you a new cube of energon in the morning - I’m not going to make you lap it off of the floor, either, or whatever Starweave had you doing. But… we’re going to work on this. I - and I guess this will make a good order - I don’t want you taking energon from anyone without my permission, understand? None at all, unless it comes from my hand. I won’t starve you - but you’re going to overcome this.”

Soundwave feels himself start to shake, the thought of being treated so helplessly, of being forced to accept fuel like an invalid or an animal or a newspark even when his frame is whole and undamaged unnerving beyond anything Jazz has said to him so far, viscerally repulsive - and the thought of choking again, of gagging, of being unable to fuel as the memories overwhelm him and starving in his own fear is even worse. Jazz seems to understand, however, and the black-and-white mech leans in a little closer, voice softening.

“It’s not forever, Soundwave, not if you’re good. I expect you to learn to let me feed you, but this isn’t a punishment - when I’m satisfied with your progress, we’ll move on to something else, alright? But the sort of reaction you had today? I don’t want that happening again. I’m not going to choke you, or flood your tanks, or pour sludge into your lines - and once you believe that, you may start fueling yourself.”

It’s… more than he expected. Bad, but… not forever? Soundwave lets himself be comforted by that - and the echoing warning from Mirage that his effort, and his obedience, will be rewarded over grovelling. He… he can endure this. He can survive, will learn how to survive it. And… it would be nice, to taste energon without remembering Starweave’s touch, Starweave’s tortures. He survived them - he will survive this.

“Soundwave: understands. Soundwave: will learn.”

“Good mech. Now… let’s go get this energon off of ourselves, alright? It’s starting to itch.” Jazz lets him go, lets him rise, and then beckons him through the open door, a hand on Soundwave’s arms guiding him to the shower stall.

“On your knees again, please. Hands on your thighs, bow your helm.”

Soundwave complies readily, although uncertainty twinges his processor. It’s easy to guess why Jazz likes him in this pose - it leaves him bared to the minibot, entire frame within reach, and his back and shoulders and antenna exposed to whatever the smaller mech wants to do - but it’s not particularly conducive to cleaning himself…

Jazz steps into the shower with him, a hand running along one of Soundwave’s shoulders, and shuts the screen behind them, and then a quick burst of comms has the shower turning on with a rush of liquid, thin and clear and acrid. The solvent splashes across his shoulders, and it’s hot, almost hot enough to boil off even as his plating pulls in the heat, and Soundwave moans.

It feels amazing.

He can't help it - he goes limp in that engulfing pleasure, lets his armor loosen, lets his fans kick up to vent the heat away from the most sensitive systems as the hot liquid spills into the cracks and floods across his protoform. The overwhelming warmth seems to draw out the soreness, pull the aches out of his bruised protomass, and it saps the strength from his frame. There's a stinging fizz as chips of worn enamel and dust and nanites and the spattered energon dissolve, washing across his plating and down the drain in thin pink rivulets, and Soundwave has to resist the urge to simply collapse in on himself and lose himself in the pleasure, pleasure he hasn’t felt in so long...

Jazz, standing behind him, chuckles, and a hand reaches out to hold the carrier upright. Soundwave snaps back to focus as another touch, almost light enough to ignore, slips across his plating and traces one of his transformation seams, and delves beneath his plating.

The surge of sudden need, to clamp down, to force out the invasive touch, is pressing. Jazz is touching him, Jazz's fingers are underneath his plating and rubbing across his protoform and a gouge, a rake, would be so easy for the torturer and would hurt so much, and Jazz is touching him -

He resists the urge even as his processor screams at him, fights to keep his plating loose and open. Jazz is already under his armor, his fingers are already too deep to simply force out, and to clamp his plating down will only cause damage, even if Jazz doesn't punish him for the show of defiance.

But… the fingers are everywhere. They run down his seams, invading, exploring; they brush over delicate sensors painlessly, rub across nodes and receptors and send trembles down his frame, and the heat travels with them and slowly bleed stress out of the carrier and replaces it with unwanted enjoyment.

When Soundwave finally slumps forward again, tension replaced by unwilling submission, Jazz laughs, and his voice is warm as he speaks.

"Good mech. Thought you were going to fight me, there - but no, you did very, very well. I'm pleased, Soundwave. Keep still, don't try to struggle, let me do as I wish, and there's no reason that this has to hurt, alright?" Jazz sounds pleased, and the delving fingers withdraw, and Soundwave lets his plating tighten just a little, enough that Jazz will have to wait and push if he wants to touch him like that again.

Of course, that's no protection, and Soundwave knows that if Jazz wants to cut into his protoform, wants to hurt him, the plating won't slow him down at all. Still, Jazz doesn't seem upset by the gesture, hardly seems to notice, and Soundwave takes what comfort he can from that. He's too warm to be afraid, not properly, and there’s nothing he can do except whatever Jazz wants him to, and so he lets himself relax as best he can into the smaller mech's grasp and enjoy the warmth for as long as it's offered.

A soft wire brush runs over one of his seams, and he purrs, too comfortable to feel fear when it can be replaced by numb enjoyment. It's bristles are smooth and well-rounded and gentle, and compared to the hard, cheap tools offered in the Decepticon washracks, it's a ridiculous luxury, one that puzzles Soundwave until he realizes that, of course, it must be Jazz's.

It traces gently down his back, pausing to scrape lightly at a patch of resin hidden beneath a plate, scrubbing solvent into the sticky itch until it dissolves away. Jazz is gentle as he works his way across the plating, stopping every so often to scuff at another area, and Soundwave slowly lets his plating loosen again, lets the brush delve a little deeper.

When his back is clean, Jazz moves to his front, and Soundwave is left staring at the blue-and-red expanse of his chest and the smooth lines of his face as the torturer begins to work at his chest, lightly scrubbing away dried energon, carefully working over the welds holding his newly repaired tapescreen in place. He’s pushed back slightly, to give the smaller mech better access to his frame, and when Jazz is satisfied and gestures for one of his hands, he complies without resistance.

This time it’s Jazz who lets out a pleased purr, and pauses for a moment, brush resting lightly over the carrier’s fingertips.

“You’re doing so well, Soundwave. Much, much better than I expected. And you look so pretty, too - Sunstreaker really did a good job on you.”

At the mention of his paint job, Soundwave glances down - and Jazz is right, it’s beautiful work, the blue so rich it nearly glows, the neat greys perfectly matched. Gratitude… seems like the right approach, even if he, himself, doesn’t care much about the condition of his paint.

“Soundwave: is grateful for effort, appreciates generosity. Painter: is skilled, did very fine work.”

“I’ll tell Sunny you said so. He’ll enjoy the praise… He’s working on your symbionts, too, and from what I hear he’s having a lot of fun with it - when he’s done, we’ll be bringing them all online.”

The thought of someone else painting, handling his clade is almost enough to distract him from what’s said after - but then the words break through to him, and Soundwave’s optics shoot up to meet Jazz’s, bright with unconcealable eagerness.

“Cohort: to be brought online? Soon?”

Jazz laughs. “Tomorrow, unless Sunny takes longer than usual - he was almost finished with your quad, with Ravage, when I saw him last, and the two fliers were already done. He can be a bit of a perfectionist, but those twins of yours sounded like an easy job from what he was saying, so he’s probably not going to take too long.” Jazz pauses. “Would you like to see them, once they’ve come online?”

“Yes!”

The word escapes before he can stop it, needy and half-hissed and desperate, but Jazz only laughs.

“You’ve done well today, I suppose. You’re doing very well right now… How about the little one? Ratbat? If you behave for me tomorrow, drink your energon like a good little pet, you can spend some time with him.”

Yes. It’s so much, it’s everything he wants, Ratbat’s delicate frame with him and in his hands and safe where Jazz and the rest of his Autobots and this Sunstreaker can’t poke and prod and paint and look at him, where his youngest can see him and teek him and know that Soundwave is sorry for hurting him all these months and that he loves him, he loves him so much, and he’ll do everything he can to keep him safe, and Soundwave is shaking, uncontrollably, against Jazz’s hands, and Jazz tucks the brush away into subspace and just holds him for a moment, steadying him as he trembles.

“I will let you see them, you know. I don’t intend to keep them from you, if you behave well.” The words are quiet, and Jazz continues to hold him, and the solvent flowing over his back is hot. Soundwave lets hope flood through his systems, because it’s all that he wants, what Jazz is offering is all that he needs - even the vague promise of seeing them will sustain him, even if it’s a lie in the end, and doubting will win him nothing.

And Mirage’s words echo in his audials: “Please him, and you may find yourself with more freedom than you expected.”

“Soundwave: will do what is requested of him.” His voice crackles. “Soundwave: will behave, will do his best for Jazz. Jazz: is generous.”

Jazz laughs again. “I can be.” He strokes the still-trembling carrier’s jaw, fingers rising to scratch at the antenna again, and Soundwave lets himself lean into the touch. “I think we’re done here, Soundwave. Give me a second, alright?”

The solvent shuts off with a burst of comms, the last droplets sputtering as the fresh heat against Soundwave’s plating stops. Still, the warmth doesn’t leave him, heat permeating frame-deep enough to last even against the sudden coolness of the shower’s air, the faint vapor of evaporating solvent.

Jazz’s fingers brush lower, and a spark snaps between them, barely stinging against Soundwave’s plates, and the air around them ignites in a broil of flames.

The sensation, so long forgotten, of solvent sparking and catching and burning, is wonderful - the feeling of sharp heat rippling across his plating in a flush wave, of the astringent liquid bubbling and gassing off and igniting from the seams and cracks in his plating and searing across his protoform makes him feel finally, fully clean. By the time the last of the liquid is burnt off, leaving only the thin, rainbow-colored ripples against the deep blue of his plating that a little wax and buffing would remove easily, Soundwave has resettled on his knees, steady, feeling better than he has in months, hot and clean and free of pain.

Jazz offers him a hand up, and Soundwave hesitates before accepting it, but Jazz only drags him to his feet, the strength in his frame obvious. “There we are. Good as new, right? It feels good to be clean?”

Soundwave lets himself nod, allowing his enjoyment and pleasure and gratitude to slip to his field. “Soundwave: feels very well. Shower: was appreciated. Soundwave: is grateful.”

“You’ll get another. I have no desire to keep you in your own filth, however… amusing… Starweave may have found it. I like to keep my pets in good condition.” Soundwave can’t bring himself to flinch at the term, as much as it bothers him to be spoken of so demeaningly, not when in the same breath Jazz is promising to allow him the sort of basic maintenance he’s been forced to spend so long without - and Jazz is already guiding him towards the door and out of the washracks.

The door swings shut behind them as they enter the main room, lock clicking, and Soundwave is led to the berth, half-pushed and half-guided down onto the thick silicone mattress before a blanket is tossed over him. It’s big, big enough to cover his whole frame with a little wiggling, and warm, and soft, and unconsciously he clutches it close, the thought of how much Ratbat would enjoy tearing the fabric into a nest teasing at the edges of his thoughts as he stares up at Jazz.

The torturer settles on the edge of the berth, tucking a corner of the blanket a little snugger.

“Get some rest, Soundwave. I’ll see you in the morning, alright? I’ll set the alarm to wake you up - on your knees again, understood?”

“Soundwave: understands.”

Jazz shifts, brushing his fingertips across Soundwave’s helm one last time, then rises. “Recharge well, Soundwave. You’ve done well today. You’ll do well here, if you keep this up.” Then he’s gone, out of sight, and Soundwave can only hear the door between his room and Jazz’s open as the other mech slips through before he’s alone in the stillness of the room.

The berth is comfortable. It’s soft, soft enough to conform easily to even his unusual build, and yet firm enough beneath him to let him twist onto his side without sinking into the silicone and tearing it, and it’s nice, the same high-quality as everything he’s encountered so far, meant for a recovering hero rather than a worthless prisoner of war. Soundwave curls a little deeper into the blanket, lets it cover him completely and trap what remains of the shower’s heat as it radiates from his frame, and stares out into the room.

He shouldn’t recharge, not yet.

He’s not an idiot, not fool enough to trust Jazz, to trust that the other mech won’t storm in in the middle of the night and rip him from the berth for a beating, terrorize him and carve away at him while he’s too weak and confused to defend himself and pull the bonds fully shut. Starweave was good at it, and months and months of training, of interrupted sleep cycles and waking to pain exploding across his sensor net and savage beatings when recharge-debt became too much and he slipped away while the other mech was working him over scream at him not to fall asleep. It’s too vulnerable, and he shouldn’t be this exhausted, and he’s had more sleep in the last day than in weeks if his chronometer is right…

But the berth is comfortable. He hasn’t had anything like this since his capture, nothing but chains and steel and torture, and the berth is comfortable, and he’s warm. Nothing hurts, and there are no warnings flashing on his HUD or damaged sensors desperately misreporting ghost data, and even down the bonds - and he takes the chance to caress them, to hold them tight - even down the bonds, weak as they are, there is no pain. And - and he’s warm, and it’s comfortable, and the blanket is so soft -

Recharge is a slow, relentless pull, and eventually, it captures him, his frame too exhausted and sated and complacent to heed the warnings his processor screams as his optics go dim, and then dark, and Soundwave lets the world around him fade away.

Chapter Text

Jazz is sitting alone in the corner of the mess hall when Mirage walks in with steady, even steps and the distinctive grace of a mech used to having all optics on him. There’s no one at the two nearest tables, and the mech at the third gets off and shuffles away when Mirage taps on his shoulder - everyone with any sense knows that it’s better to be elsewhere when the SpecOps mechs are conspiring. The other Autobots aren’t afraid of them, of course - Jazz has been very careful over the years to be seen as friendly and approachable, nothing at all like his Decepticon counterparts, and the Intelligence mechs as a whole get on with the rest of the army, but…

When they talk in public like this, it usually means they’re inclined to recruit the nosy as their stooges - and no mech with any sense wants to become part of one of SpecOps’ plans. Over the years it’s become unwritten law that when Jazz or Mirage tells you to go, you go.

It’s incredibly convenient - public areas like the mess are far more comfortable for debriefings than one of their secure private suites, at least if they’re not discussing major secrets, and it’s much harder for a mech like Shockwave to bug for and sort through information when they increase their area of operations to the entire base.

Mirage settles down at the table, bouncing his cube on his thigh to take away the worst of the fizz before cracking it and peeling back the top.

“So, how’d it go?” Jazz unsubspaces a small, round device with a swish of his hand, pressing the button in the center and wincing slightly at the wave of static over his auxiliary sensors. He turns off all but the most vital to spare himself the discomfort - the disruptor is harmless, a cheap and effective means of preventing recordings and baffling mechs with audio enhancers, but the constant staticky input can cause processor aches.

Mirage is distracted for a moment, disabling his own audio mods no doubt, and then he glances up. “Hm?”

“How’d it go? Soundwave didn’t give you too much trouble, I hope?”

“None at all.” Mirage smiles warmly before sipping his energon. “He was incredibly well-behaved, in fact. Obedient, quiet, and polite, and he warmed up to me quickly.”

It’s precisely the sort of report he wants to hear. The carrier is still weak, and he hasn’t had any time at all to adjust to his new circumstances, and a punishment on the first night would be a poor way to show him how his situation has changed - but disobedience isn’t something he can overlook either. On the other hand, good behavior? That, Jazz can reward.

He glances back up at his agent with a pleased smirk. “So? Details?”

Mirage considers the request for a second, then grins, a secretive, satisfied look that he rarely shares in public. “Primus, Jazz, you should have seen me. I was sparked to the wrong function as a lordling - I belong on a stage.”

Jazz grins back at his agent. “Yeah, we had them in the slums, those ones where mechs wriggled out of their armor and danced about in their bare proto-” He ducks the swat with a laugh of his own, and his field teeks the casual mockery he intends. “Oh, fine. Tell me?”

“I had him eating out of my hand. He’s pit-scared of you - and he was terrified of me, too, at first, but I warmed him up quickly enough. ’Oh, but look how much I understand you! After all, Jazz is my master too!’ ‘Oh, he can be very kind if you please him, but if you defy him, the punishments are dire and agonizing!’ And oh, by the way, you killed Starweave now - not in as many words, I didn’t lie, but I made it sound like you flayed the bastard alive. Ate it right out of my palm like a turbofox pup.”

Jazz has to know. “Did you -”

“Yes, I actually called you master. And yes, I deleted the recordings.”

Mirage’s lips flicker down in a frown, but his field is teeking amusement as Jazz bursts into laughter. A few mechs glance over at the sudden movement, but they glance away just as quickly - no one wants to know.

It takes a few moments for Jazz to regain control - the look of irritation Mirage gives him sets him off again, and the mech is looking truly annoyed when Jazz’s shaking shoulders finally still, his face in his arms and pressed to the table.

“Surprising as it may be, I understand that sometimes, sacrifices must be made for the cause, Jazz. I assure you that I have as little regard for you now as I did when I awoke this morning, you gutter-dwelling peasant.”

The pith, the sheer distain, in Mirage’s voice is incredible, thick and rich and contemptuous - and then he’s cracking a grin, too, and Jazz leans into the spy’s side as the larger mech wraps an arm over him, and they clink their cubes together in memory of an old, shared joke.

“Ha - but seriously, he believed you?”

“Absolutely. But then, he needed it - he seemed desperate for reassurance, for someone he could trust not to hurt him. I think - give me a little time, and he’ll not just trust me, he’ll seek me out…”

Jazz nods at that. “Good. We’ll win his confidence - adjusting will be much easier if we have someone he trusts to guide him. I’ll arrange for you to spend some time with him - you can do aftercare once I’ve punished him for something, maybe. Or I’ll let you take him out to stretch his legs.”

“Sounds good. I’d prefer the first, I think - toss him to me, order me to take care of him, and give me the night, maybe? I’ve won more trust with pain chips…” He trails off with another small smirk.

“Sure.” Jazz takes another sip from his nearly-empty cube, and Mirage matches it before setting his own down. “So… you’ve seen him, talked to him - your opinion?”

Mirage leans back in his chair, rolling the edge of his cube along the table thoughtfully.

“He won’t fight you, not today. He’s not an idiot, not a fool - he’s terrified, but clever, and unless you really scare him, I’m willing to bet he’ll keep doing his best to play a compliant little pet for you.”

“That’s… good. I’ll go easy on him, then - try to be fair.” Jazz taps the table thoughtfully. “I was going to get him cleaned off, play it up like a reward. Ratchet did a great job, as usual, but you know how free he gets with the resin…”

“Itchy. And unpleasant.” With a single finger, Mirage scrapes the underside of his shoulderplate with a sympathetic huff. “He’ll probably like that. He was looking pretty sore… unsteady on his pedes, at least at first, although that’s not surprising.”

“No, not at all, but it’ll feel good to get some hot solvent under his plates, I’m sure. No idea when he last got cleaned at all - he never seemed to get less filthy in any of the vids I watched. I’m thinking I’ll get him nice and cleaned up, get my hands all over him, and start getting him used to the idea that I’m going to be touching him without it hurting…”

Mirage flinches. “Yeah, that’d be a good idea. Should try to figure out how to get him used to other mechen, too… we had a bit of an incident in the elevator earlier.”

“An… incident? You said you hadn’t had any issues with him - something else happen?” Jazz’s optics flicker up with a hum of interest.

“I had been getting to it, but it wasn’t his fault. Before I begin, I should tell you - I promised not to tell you about this, so if you could leave it out of your story when you visit him, I would appreciate it. Offering him that sort of confidence seemed like my best option for building rapport - he was very afraid.” The blue mech meets his boss’s gaze with a steady look, awaiting Jazz’s reply, but the tension in his field is unmistakeable.

It’s a gamble of a move on Mirage’s part, one that Jazz doesn’t necessarily approve of. Soundwave is in an exceedingly tenuous position at the moment, vulnerable, and giving him the idea that Mirage will lie on his behalf - will lie to Jazz for any reason - may bite the espionage agent on the aft down the road… But if Mirage feels like Soundwave needs a confidant and protector rather than Jazz’s amiable-but-loyal SIC, Jazz won’t try to fight it.

“It’s cool, ‘Raj. You were the agent on the ground - I’m not gonna second-guess you any more than I would on the field. Just try to keep this sort of thing to a minimum - I need to be able to use the info you get, after all...”

That wins him a small smile.

“Of course. I was taking him to your habsuite. I had cleared both floors, and I direct-called one of the elevators… what I didn’t know was that Ironhide was currently using it to debrief - corner - Bluestreak and Bumblebee about the symbionts.”

Jazz lets his helm roll forwards, clunking against the table.

“Yeah, they came and mentioned it to me - nothing about you, though. Ironhide’s going to be a problem, I can tell - he was pretty upset when we found them, and you know Ironhide; he never lets anything rest once he’s got his dentae in it, and he’s got a soft spark for younglings. And we both know how he’d feel about what we’re doing with the carrier…”

They pause to consider that, and yes, that’s a bit of fear that Jazz is teeking in Mirage’s field. Ironhide is a likable mech, of course, but the agent doesn’t know him nearly as well as Jazz does, and Ironhide is both very large and easily angered .

And he has easy access to both high explosives and heavy weaponry. Some trepidation on the lightly-armored stealth unit’s part is… probably not unreasonable.

“Yeah, well…” He clears his vents awkwardly. “So what happened in the elevator? Like I said, Blue and Bee didn’t mention any problems…”

“There were none - not while they were with us. Soundwave was tense, yes, but he was impressively well-composed, and the other three didn’t try to interact with him. But when they got out, when we were alone - he fell apart. He was terrified, on his knees shaking - I locked down the elevator when I couldn’t get him to stop crying.” Mirage pauses, tapping his fingers and organizing his thoughts before continuing.

“So?”

“I held him for a bit. Talked to him, quietly, until he calmed down, and did my best to reassure him that he wasn’t doing anything to upset me, that he wasn’t going to be attacked or hurt, and that it was alright that he was letting out his stress, and eventually he relaxed enough to be coherent. After that… I tried to be informative.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. He was - Pit, Jazz, you should have seen him. Absolutely terrified of them - Bumblebee waved goodbye to me and he looked like he had been slapped. And Ironhide - I’m surprised Soundwave didn’t just pass out when I shoved him in next to him, he looked like he was expecting to be beaten to death right then and there. So I told him about them - and I told him that he was under your protection.”

That is enough to make Jazz’s optics narrow. “Under my protection? You realize that I’m not going to -”

“Not like that!” Mirage waves his hands between them dismissively. “Think ‘Con, Jazz, it’s a ‘Con thing. Under your protection - as in you enjoy beating the scrap out of him enough that you’ll tear apart anyone else who tries to do it without your permission. He has those symbionts, right? He’ll understand what it means, to have a mech with a reputation lay a claim on him.”

“Ah.” Jazz considers. “So I’m the biggest, baddest ‘Bot onboard, and no one else will try to slag me off by fragging with him?”

Mirage relaxes a little, plating loosening a touch. “Yes, exactly. It was the best way I could think of to calm him. He’s afraid of you, and you’ve got quite the reputation among Decepticons, and you know how their officers are - why wouldn’t your own troops fear your anger just as much?”

That makes Jazz grin, and he lets his field teek his pleasure with the reply.

“That’s why I chose you for this, ‘Raj - you’ve definitely got the touch for this sort of work…”

MIrage hums softly at the praise. “So… what’s the plan for tonight, anyways? You said a shower, get him used to you…”

Jazz glances up before pinging him a file - Ratchet, in the medbay feeding the carrier. “Take a look at that.”

Mirage pops it open and reviews it quickly before replying. “Some kind of problem with energon? I’ve not seen many mechs react that badly to a medic, even an enemy one - pretty much just SpecOps mechs, and we don’t trust anyone.”

“Yeah. I’m guessing that Starweave was using refueling to torture him somehow, but I want to know how. Messed-up fragger only recorded the graphic stuff - I want to find out what he was doing to them when the cameras were off. We’ve got a lot of videos of the carrier being tortured, but none of the symbionts, unless they had been brought into the room, and nothing at all with any sort of care - but there’s no way he’d have survived without it, not through all of that, and there’s welds all over him to prove it.”

“So you’re going to…” Mirage trails off, curiosity apparent.

“Going to get my new pet on his knees and offer him a cube. From my hand, of course - the way a good little pet should take it.” Jazz lets himself slip into character a little, visor darkening as his voice drops to a purr, and he can see the involuntary shiver that traces down Mirage’s frame at the tone. “See what he makes of that.”

Mirage ex-vents, ducking his gaze away for a moment. “That’s… Primus damn it, Jazz, you know I hate it when you use that voice with me…” He takes another second to collect himself. “That’s… going to be hard on him. It’s embarrassing enough if you don’t have a problem with fueling…”

“He’ll be fine. I’m not going to rough him up if there’s a problem, but I’m curious. So I’m going to fuel him, and then get him cleaned up, and then I’ll let him recharge - he’s probably exhausted, it’s been a long day.”

“Sounds like a plan…like I said, though, Jazz - go easy on him? He really is afraid.”

Jazz lets his hand run reassuringly down the arm covering his shoulder, and Mirage purrs at the touch. “You know I will, ‘Raj - I like the kid’s fire, and I don’t want to see that go out. You know I tease - but I’ll be careful, I won’t push him too far. Comm me after, and I’ll fill you in?”

Mirage humms an acknowledgement as Jazz finishes off his cube and rises, deactivating the disruptor as he turns his own audial mods back online. There’s a few seconds of feedback as sound rushes in, engulfing them, and it’s almost dizzying as his processor kicks into high gear, sorting new inputs into threat ratings and locking onto potential targets with ruthless efficiency before it finishes evaluating the room and settles into the cool simmer that means security/allies/base.

Mirage remains behind, Hound bobbing over with a cube of his own, as Jazz heads out into the hall, stride turning from his usual easy lope into something intent and measured as he lets himself sink into his purpose, hardly even noticing the familiar slide from friendly commander into agent on a mission even as it goes on in his own head. There’s a certain… focus, that comes with having a goal, and a job, and a purpose, and Jazz relishes in it when he can, but now it rises as naturally as a seeker.

There’s a distance that comes with a mission, too - the remoteness that lets him tear apart a mech’s frame without hesitation, without even breaking their conversating - and he knows that the mechs he’s passing in the hall can sense it even though they can’t teek it in his field. It’s obvious in the way they draw back, the hesitant looks in their optics when they see him, and he lets himself enjoy that nervousness - here, like this, as poised to hurt as he is to heal, it feels good to know that his presence can so effortlessly dominate the focus of those around him.

Optimus might not approve, might not understand, but Jazz likes being feared.

He reaches his room in silence, and begins to unlock the door; when it clicks open, he steps inside, seals it, and begins evaluating the room. It’s easily the most secure room in the base, and even Prowl and Red Alert admit it. No cameras, dozens of anti-spy and anti-infiltration measures - and, if Jazz expects to be gone for more than a few hours, the room pumps full of enough graphene gas to stasis a mech of Optimus’ size in ten seconds. Electrobafflers thread beneath the wall panels, pulsing with EMPs that spread just above the surfaces of the panels and destroy any electronics planted there - and the same line the floors and ceilings, causing a faint tingle underpede as they’re walked across.

It’s a masterwork in paranoia, one that only a handful of mechs - Autobot High Command and Jazz’s own agents - are ever priviledged to see, and it’s for that reason that the SpecOps briefing rooms in the lower levels have been long since abandoned for anything except interrogations and feeding out misinformation. There are few anti-spy methods as effective as having a trained SpecOps mech live in the briefing room, after all...

That said, fitting Ironhide and Optimus Prime into a standard-sized officer’s berthroom for briefings is an exercise in frustration.

It takes a few minutes before Jazz is satisfied that the room is properly secured, but when he is, he settles against his berth, lying back, turning his gaze to the ceiling, and shuttering his optics as he accesses the video feed of the neighboring room. Soundwave is asleep - as expected - but rather than being curled up on the berth, the uncomfortable-looking mech is slumped helplessly on the floor, limbs splayed in a half-kneeling, half-collapsed huddle, as if he had offlined waiting on his knees.

It’s an amusing thought - that the larger mech would be so intimidated by the thought of being taken by surprise that he would wait himself into an exhausted forced recharge - and Jazz is almost tempted to enter without warning, to see the fear and distress in his optics and gentle him out of it… But it feels too unkind, not when the mech has absolutely no reason to think he’ll receive any mercy for failing to obey Jazz’s commands.

Instead, he pings the alarm, and a shrill beeping noise fills the room. On his berth, Jazz can hear it, a distant, quiet echo in his audials of the louder alarm echoing from the monitors.

Soundwave’s return to alertness is slow. He groans, and seems to take a moment to remember where he is - Jazz can see his armor flare and shudder as he runs through checks, optics onlining, guttering, flaring and then dimming and steadying as they run through cycles and settle.

The beeping stops with a second ping as Soundwave’s armor presses flat, and even without fieldsense it’s easy to recognize the rush of fear in the other mech’s optics. The surge of emotion is beautiful - terror, yes, but then the determination that Jazz is so eager for, followed by a despairing shudder at the reality of his situation.

Soundwave trembles, but he rises, slowly, unsteadily, to his knees.

The carrier glances around the room, obviously nervous - but his optics return, again and again, to where Jazz knows the alarm’s light is blinking. His growing tension is obvious, the faint quaver in his frame that grows into a tremble of real anxiety as he’s forced to wait for Jazz, trapped counting the minutes until the Intelligence mech deigns to appear.

Initially, Jazz had planned to make him wait it out a little beyond the fifteen promised minutes, force the other mech to spend a few extra moments on his knees, alone with his fear - but seeing the carrier try to steel himself, he revises that decision. The mech is terrified - even the stony, iron-willed expression on his face isn’t enough to hide it - but he’s being strong, holding himself together, and there’s a certain appeal to rewarding that strength, to permitting the other mech to keep what he can of his dignity rather than letting a few extra minutes push him over the point of collapse.

At twelve minutes, Jazz onlines his optics and audials, rises from the berth, and slips back into the hall.

He straightens as he toys with the cell’s lock. When it beeps, and the door swings wide, flooding the room with bright light, Jazz can see the other mech recoil, his optics flickering out - and oh, but it’s an appealing sight, a helpless, sightless mech on his knees and terrified before him, waiting for cruelty that only Jazz knows isn’t coming.

Jazz circles, field loose and overwhelming, and lets himself teek the fear that the aggressive gesture draws from his prey. He takes in the larger mech from all angles, nearly purring at the delicate tremors in his shoulders and the way Soundwave’s helm twitches as if to track him, the way his fans kick up a notch with every step Jazz takes that brings him a little closer.

The fear is as addicting as any circuit booster, the feeling of control - of being his victim’s entire world, of absorbing their focus until he’s all that they have the strength or presence of mind to fear - enough to make his spark hum and twist with pleasure. The knowledge that he could ruin this mech utterly, in moments, with barely any effort, tear him apart in ways that it would take a lifetime to heal, is heady - but all it is, all it needs to be, is potential.

It’s obvious he could destroy the fragile creature below him. Saving him, restoring him, bringing him back from the edge of terror and into safety, is not his usual role - but it’s a flip side of the same coin, the equal but opposite, and the interrogator takes it as his task with relish and forces back the lingering desire to hurt, to tear and rend and break.

After all, mercy and kindness can be weapons as easily as pain, and Soundwave has already been stripped bare of what armor he might have against them.

Jazz draws in a little closer, a little more near, and gently, carefully, brushes his hand across Soundwave’s face.

The reaction is immediate - the carrier jerks away, scrabbles backwards with a cry, and his optics iris wide and bright and panicked to stare up at Jazz with unconcealed horror.

Well, well…

The reaction is as expected, the sudden shock of touch enough to frighten the carrier into action, and Jazz presses his advantage with an amused grin and a calm voice.

“Hello, Soundwave. I’m pleased to see you can follow directions…”

This time, when he reaches out, the carrier doesn’t fight him, although the urge to bolt, the desperate desire to recoil from the contact, is blatant in his field. Jazz rewards the blue mech’s effort with a painless touch, tracing the sweeping curves and strong lines of the carrier’s face with delicate ease before flicking his fingertips to the mech’s antenna.

Delicate, sensitive antenna. Jazz has worked with, and on. enough mechs with the sensory arrays to know exactly how much pain a too-hard touch will bring Soundwave - but instead, he toys with them carefully, scratching lightly at the thin seams where sensor meets plating, and from the quaver that he earns, the touch has the desired effect - pleasure, even if the carrier is too confused to enjoy it. Soundwave remains frozen, pressed unconsciously into the touch, and by the time Jazz is ready to move on, he seems wound as tight as a wire.

Jazz keeps his tone light - perhaps not comforting, but pleased, touching his words with enough mockery to make the other mech squirm. He flicks his fingers under Soundwave’s chin, drawing up his gaze until the mech can’t help but meet his optics, and watches at the shift of emotions there and in his field as he speaks.

“Good mech - I hope you weren’t waiting long. Mirage came to give me his report.”

Soundwave tenses, and it’s obvious that he’s uneasy, afraid - the gnawing worry that Mirage had described echoing in his face. It’s obvious that there’s no need to tease him, that Soundwave’s own anxious processor has already tormented him for that beyond anything Jazz might have bothered with, and Jazz reorganizes his words, replans his attack, and goes in for the kill.

“He said that you had been very good for him, Soundwave.”

A moment, to let it sink in, to let Soundwave realize that he wasn’t going to be lashed out at. “Behaved yourself like a good little mech, and did as you were told, no issues at all. I’m very pleased, Soundwave. I didn’t want to start our working relationship with a punishment.””

The carrier’s optics brighten in surprise at his words, and it’s clear that whatever Mirage might have offered to tell Jazz would not have reassured him until this moment - until Soundwave had heard Jazz himself say that he had done well, had avoided punishment. His field flares bright with gratitude, and Jazz makes note to congratulate Mirage on so easily winning the other mech’s appreciation. Still, the carrier hesitates for a long moment before speaking.

“Soundwave: will obey. Soundwave: does not wish for pain.”

Jazz hums in response, contemplating the words. Soundwave is clearly cowed but not broken, despite his fear, carefully doing his best to avoid angering his captor rather than submitting to his will. It’s good, a sign that for all Starweave’s tortures he hadn’t destroyed the mech, but it makes handling Soundwave more challenging, the delicate balance between offering too much and too little, between cruelty and mercy, that much harder to uphold.

Tonight, though… the mech has had a long day, and he’s still recovering, and Jazz has more pleasant things in mind for him than pain, once his questions have been answered and his curiosity assauged. He keeps his voice calm and soothing as he comforts Soundwave.

“So long as you continue to behave as well as you have, I see no reason that I would have to punish you tonight, Soundwave. On the contrary - I believe you’ve earned tonight’s ration - and a shower, when I’ve fueled you.”

Soundwave still looks hesitant, but while it’s fairly easy for Jazz to make an educated guess as to what’s got the other mech afraid, it’s impossible to pin down what exactly he might do to ease that fear. After a moment, however, Soundwave slumps forward, a slight tremor washing across his shoulders as his helm drops.

His voice quavers, but Jazz can teek honesty in his field at his next words:

“Soundwave: grateful. Jazz: is very generous.”

“I can be, yes.”

If he’s honest with himself, lets the veil of mission slip back a little, Jazz can admit that he feels a little pity, feels almost bad for what he plans to do to Soundwave. The other mech seems to be honestly doing his best to please, or at least appease, him, and has done nothing wrong - but the question of what might have happened to make the other mech afraid to take energon from a medic - a medic! - ‘s hands burns at him, an aching curiosity that he already knows nothing but an answer will sate.

Jazz rises from besides the carrier and idles his way over to the table, feeling rather than seeing the other mech’s optics as they track him across the room. The cube and the vials of supplement are laid out neatly, clearly labeled, and Jazz lets himself pause to evaluate his options before preparing the cube.

The energon is nice - one of Sideswipe’s own concoctions, strong and a little thick. It’s too rich for Jazz’s taste - years of making do have left him with no stomach for the stronger energon blends - but most mechen who’ve gone hungry get a taste for that strength, at least in the beginning. It’s a surge of power, a flavor heavy and pungent enough to, as Mirage had described it after a mission gone wrong that had ended in the mech hiding, invisible, in a sewer for almost a month, “convince you it’s real, and not just your sensors tricking you into a happy death,” and Soundwave looks like he needs that as much as anything.

He tips in two of the supplements from Ratchet with an easy flick, and makes sure that the carrier is watching as he stirs them in. They’re both sweet, tungsten and magnesium - of course, most of the more important supplements are sour, but for this first cube, he doesn’t want the carrier to balk at the taste. Not when he’s already playing games with the larger mech - if Soundwave is already going to be struggling with the indignity of being hand-fed, Jazz will at least make sure that the energon is enjoyable.

He carries it to Soundwave with a steady hand and stands over him, and presses the cube to the carrier’s lips in a careful, firm gesture.

It’s obvious how much the carrier wants it - Jazz knows himself what it’s like to have gone without, knows how appealing energon can be after months of starving, even with a full tank - and he grins inside as Soundwave reaches out to take the cube. It’s what he would do himself, after all - the natural instinct of any mech offered fuel in such a way - and it takes more than a little effort to school his face into a smooth mask as he tugs the glowing cube back.

Soundwave’s gaze turns up, bright and uncertain, and he lets out a little chirr as he meets Jazz’s optics and flinches back. He cowers down before the stern look, and Jazz wants to laugh at how easily he’s letting himself be played with, how vulnerable the carrier’s fear makes him to even a little teasing, how easy it is to keep him spinning and uncertain and on edge as Jazz shifts the world around him. Soundwave looks horrified at the thought that he’s displeased Jazz, and the SpecOps mech does nothing to dissuade him.

“Did I say you could take the cube, Soundwave?”

Soundwave ducks away from him, obviously confused and intimidated by the stern tone, and shakes his helm in a quick response. The clear submission in his actions, even when Jazz is so obviously toying with him - and the so-far obvious gratitude for even the smallest of mercies, the smallest flecks of kindness - are gratifying, more sign then Jazz had expected so early that Soundwave is ready to be broken, that the carrier is nearing the point where he will bend and bow and snap against the inexorable force of Jazz’s mercy.

Jazz keeps his touch gentle as he reaches out and raises Soundwave’s helm until the carrier can’t do anything else but meet his optics. “Then don’t. Hands in your lap. Helm up.” He lightens his touch until it’s barely there, but the carrier holds his helm at the angle he’s guided it to even without his support, and his hands make their way to fold neatly between his knees.

Jazz lets himself purr at the obedience, and continues as reassuringly as he can. “I won’t punish you for your mistake this time - I didn’t give you any commands to the contrary - but a good pet takes energon from their master’s hand. Understand?”

Soundwave quakes beneath him, and Jazz can see the war raging in his red optics, can teek it in his field - panic, fear, and memories, of what, there’s no way to tell, but it’s obvious that the carrier-mech doesn’t want to submit, that something is making the prospect of yielding to what should be a harmless humiliation more fearsome than even Jazz.

And then that spirit, that rebellion, dims, and Soundwave’s optics shutter as his helm tilts back.

Jazz presses the cube to his lips, and they open compliantly, and he carefully adjusts his grip on the cube and begins to pour.

Feeding Soundwave like this is easy, at least for him. The mech is very still, too still, almost, and perfectly obedient as he holds the delicate arch that lets the energon slip smoothly down his throat. It’s a skill Jazz has worked at, perfected, under Ratchet’s occasional guidance and his own infrequent need, over the years, and it’s served him well: memories of a cave and a rock and Bluestreak and a shallow bowl filled with his own evergon after the Praxan refused to drink from his lines bubble to the surface, and Jazz smiles with a pleased hum.

Under his hands, Soundwave sputters, half-choking, and his field flares with fear.

That’s interesting.

With a purr, Jazz lets his unoccupied hand slip to Soundwave’s neck, lets it stroke the thin plating and smooth cables there, comforting… it’s instinct, though, cruel and unerring, that makes him lean in with a whisper.

“Good mech. Very good.”

That’s the trigger, and with a spasm, Soundwave is choking for real.

Energon spatters the floor between them, pink flecks of liquid spattering his thighs and arms as Soundwave gags, and then the carrier is purging, and energon spills everywhere as Jazz pulls away from the roiling, hot liquid.

He can’t do much more than watch as Soundwave sways - a purge isn’t something he can stop, and the other mech is too lost in nausea and humiliation to be paying him much mind, anyways. It’s… a much more violent reaction than he had been expecting; a full purge is serious, usually a rejection of some sort of toxin or dangerous contaminant, and at worst Jazz had expected a little heaving, perhaps gagging or choking or something else equally unpleasant but harmless…

The thought of what sort of treatment might cause such violent rejection of good energon is more than worrying.

Finally, Soundwave manages to empty his tanks entirely. He sways, frame unsteady from the vigorous reaction and the physical strain of purging, and as he staggers forward, Jazz hurries to catch him, to at least spare him the embarrassment and discomfort of falling face-first into a pool of his own regurgitated energon. Jazz can feel the heat radiating from the pink fluid as he’s forced to kneel in it to reach the carrier, but it’s no worse than he’s done many times for other mechen, and he ignores it as he watches the carrier’s optics rise slowly to meet his.

Soundwave looks absolutely horrified, lips stained pink, warm energon covering his chin, and Jazz presses the emotion out of his field and refuses to give in to the urge to wipe it away and coddle the clearly-shaken mech.

Instead, he watches as that look of horror slowly fades into one of agony.

Jazz has purged several times, and it always takes a moment for the pain to hit. Purging is uncomfortable, and the heated energon is enough to burn at the throat and mouth of the mechen doing it, but it’s not inherently painful - but the twisting and pressure and stress involved in forcing energon back up what is designed to be an intake puts a tremendous amount of strain on the frame. Soreness, stiffness, and a throbbing processor-ache are the result, once the rush has faded.

And Soundwave’s obviously being hit hard.

He leans into Jazz’s hold with a moan, and suddenly the Intelligence mech really is the only thing holding him up. Jazz pushes back gently, until most of the carrier’s much greater weight is on his knees, but even then, he’s too unsteady to let go - and honestly, Jazz doesn’t want to. Soundwave… looks vulnerable, like this, weak and aching, and Jazz knows from experience that touch, that having someone to hold onto him and stay with him through the coming pain, will help as much as anything.

That’s not, of course, to say that he doesn’t have other tricks under his plates. Jazz lets his free hand slip to Soundwave’s neck, and this time, he squeezes, hard enough to make the delicate sensors there misfire.

It’s an old trick, one that only works on an unawares mech, but it clearly works here, Soundwave obviously unprepared for the sudden rush of erroneous data sending pleasure shooting to his processor. It’s enough to override the worst of the pain, clearly, as Soundwave lets out a little whimper and slumps into the hold, optics flickering.

Jazz releases him slowly, adjusting his grip to hit a new sensor cluster as Soundwave lets out a little gasp of pain, and squeezes again.

This hold seems to work much better, and Soundwave goes entirely limp with a muffled groan.

Jazz holds the grip, firm and steady, for a few more moments before reluctantly letting go again, just long enough to shift his fingers and squeeze again, to drive back the returning pain. This time, Soundwave’s appreciation is obvious as the first teeks of pleasure/comfort/enjoyment spatter across his field, and Jazz lets himself fall into a rhythm, squeeze-release-shift-squeeze-release, as he carefully monitors the reactions he’s getting.

It’s utterly fascinating, to watch the tremors of pain dissolve as he touches the mech, and the absolute surrender and submission in his frame as Jazz keeps up his steady pace. Soundwave is completely relaxed, plating loose, slumped forwards and entirely vulnerable, and his field radiates bliss as Jazz continues to massage away the nausea. There’s no unease, no resistance, not even fear, and Jazz can’t help but want to keep going even after he knows that the nausea is gone, just to enjoy causing his - Starweave’s - victim a little pleasure.

Primus knows he deserves it.

He lets himself give in to the impulse. This, at least, is something that Soundwave appears to be enjoying without fear or reservation, even if only because he’s too dizzy and distracted to properly be afraid, and Jazz is willing to simply enjoy that, the feeling of another mech lost in pleasure from a little kindness and a gentle touch. He continues on until he’s sure that even the last faint strains of discomfort have died in the carrier’s field, and it’s with a little reluctance that he finally releases his hold.

“Hey, mech - you alright?”

He keeps the question soft, not wanting to egg on a processor ache, but his only reply is a whimper, a little shudder, and Soundwave pressing up into his hand - and it’s too cute to resist, the absolute need in the fragile gesture, and Jazz squeezes again and repeats the question over the carrier’s purr of pleasure.

“Soundwave, are you alright?”

This time, he gets a reply, optics unshuttering and flickering to light as they rise to meet his own, and Soundwave trembles beneath his hold, clearly only just fully recognizing his situation. The carrier’s voice is stilted and terrified, his reply brief and too insubstantial to provide any real insight, but at least it’s a reply.

“Soundwave: is functional.”

The fear that makes the carrier’s voice crackle sends a pulse of anger through Jazz. Soundwave presses back, despite the firm hold Jazz has on his neck and shoulder both, and tenses as if he expects a beating, like he think’s he’s going to be tossed down and tortured for the energon staining the floor, and seeing him so terrified, so utterly afraid, over something that was not and could not be his fault makes Jazz want to rip into something - but he suppresses the fury as quickly as he can, not wanting to alarm Soundwave or make him think that the fury is directed at him.

Still, the carrier trembles, and it’s obvious that he’s panicking, and that here, cornered and vulnerable, he expects Jazz to lash out. Soundwave is stiff, frozen - and when he speaks, it’s to beg.

“Soundwave: is sorry. Soundwave: did not mean to fail, disobey!”

Jazz hesitates for a moment, carefully evaluating this sudden twist from pleasant calm into terror. He’s got to be careful - calm the mech, dig away until he’s exposed the root of the problem, and do it all without letting the mech beneath him panic.

And, squirming in his grip, field bright with rising terror, Soundwave is right on the edge of panic.

“Soundwave. Calm down.” He keeps his voice quiet, just loud enough that he can be sure the carrier hears him, and modulates away his anger at the suffering that the carrier’s been put through as he stills his field and tone. His fingers slip up from the carrier’s neck, instead tracing back to and settling on his antenna to rub gently there as Soundwave’s frame begins to shake, quaking uncontrollably, pressing into his touch for support even as the carrier tries to pull away.

It takes a moment, but finally, Soundwave’s optics rise again, and the confusion and abject, desperate terror there is enough to startle a snort from the interrogator. It’s - he should have been expecting it, of course, the mech’s feelings are easy to read in his field, but the sudden bizarreness of the situation, of being so utterly feared by a mech who for once he honestly doesn’t intend to hurt, is so overwhelming that he can’t hold back the single chuckle.

Tears, honest-to-Primus tears, well up and threaten in Soundwave’s optics, and Jazz rushes to reassure the mech.

“I’m not going to hurt you yet, Soundwave.”

The yet’s important, because yes, he knows, he will probably have to hurt Soundwave, and it’s always better to tell a frightening truth than be thought a liar, but he almost doesn’t want to add it. Seeing Soundwave so afraid, the thought of hurting him more is discomfiting, even though he knows it’s necessary, and Jazz can’t help but wonder at his sudden reluctance to cause the mech pain even as he smooths and gentles his voice.

“I just want to know what happened, for now. That was an… interesting reaction. I won’t punish you, won’t hurt you, until you’ve had a chance to explain yourself.”

The carrier’s reluctance is plain as he shirks back, optics flickering over Jazz’s shoulder for a single moment as if looking for some way out, some way to dart away from his captor and escape. Jazz doesn’t offer him any, doesn’t back down at all, and he keeps his field still and his grip firm as he waits for an answer.

It’s offered in the same insubstantial manner as before, a real reply, but one with all of the information Jazz really wants stripped away in a crackle of static. “Starweave: often fed Soundwave like this.”

He lets another chuckle cross his lips, keeping his tone light even as he feels his spark sink at all that the words might imply. “I would think you’d be better at it, then…”

Soundwave ducks his head in embarrassment, looking humiliated at having to bare the cause behind his shame, but he doesn’t try to duck the question or push back - this time, the answer is thorough enough to satisfy any curiosity Jazz might feel. “Starweave: ...enjoyed watching Soundwave struggle, suffer with refueling. Starweave: would feed Soundwave, symbionts curdled energon, energon mixed with oils, coolant, lubricant. Starweave: would choke Soundwave during refueling, pour too quickly to manage, take fuel away while still starving. Situation: reminded Soundwave of those instances.”

Oh.

Oh.

Jazz can’t - doesn’t - fight the surge of fury that flows through him at the carrier’s words, though he damps it from his field as best he can. The thought of Starweave forcing effluent on the frightened mech before him - of the monster laying hands on and poisoning the fragile, beautiful symbionts for his own amusement - makes him want to lash out, makes him want to hunt and destroy the other mech, and it’s all he can do to ride out the flare of temper and hide it as best he’s able. Until...

In front of him, something twists, and Jazz lets his hand snap out before he can even process the movement, fingers tightening around the antenna held between them until he can feel the metal strain as his other hand fastens around an armor plate with an iron grip. It’s a gesture that’s as much reflex as anything, pinning his - victim? enemy? attacker? - in place with an almost-snarl, and the mech before him freezes.

It takes a moment to register that that mech is Soundwave, looking more afraid than ever, frozen under his darkened gaze, pink smeared across his plating like a wound against the blue, and Jazz lets his grip slowly relax.

It takes another moment to compose himself, to fight back the surge of energy and anger and the shame that floods in in it’s wake at his loss of control. When he’s sure, very sure, that he can keep his voice calm, he speaks, letting his fingers slowly return to gently rubbing the carrier’s antenna as he tries to reassure the paralyzed mech.

“I… apologize for frightening you, Soundwave.” He keeps his tone gentle as he speaks, letting his own efforts to calm the distressed carrier calm him in turn, the normality of winding down an overstressed prisoner enough to bring him back to the moment and ease his temper down. “I understand that there will be baggage, from your time with Starweave. He and I had many disagreements on how to handle prisoners. I won’t break you, not for the occasional… slip-up, while you find your place here.”

There. That’s enough, and Mirage’s earlier misguidance about Starweave’s fate can only help him, now - Soundwave looks ready enough to believe that this was just frustration at Starweave’s treatment of him rather than anger aimed at the carrier, and although his optics are still bright and wary, his frame slowly loosens from it’s over-still tenseness.

It’s not a bad bit to follow, either, and Jazz can feel his next question forming as he speaks, a niggling bit of curiosity that he may as well pursue and see where he winds up...

“With that said, what would Starweave have done to you, if you made a mess like this? What would he have done to you?”

The shift back to utter tension is immediate in Soundwave’s frame, and Jazz knows that he’s struck something worth investigating, that whatever the answer may be, it’ll offer him another little thread to tug at until it, and Soundwave, unravel.

It takes Soundwave a moment to speak, and when he does his voice is stiff and uneasy.

“Starweave: Would have beaten Soundwave, damaged plating, protoform. Soundwave: would not have been allowed fuel again until levels had reached critical, near stasis… Soundwave: would have been required to clean the mess.”

Well. The carrier is lying to him.

No - not lying, he revises the thought after another moment of careful examination. He’s hiding, trying to distract or dissuade Jazz from something he wants to conceal, but he’s not got the bold fear of a liar waiting to be called on it - Soundwave is afraid, expects to be caught out, but he’s not outright lying. Yet.

Jazz watches him for another moment. He can see the carrier squirm, the desperate hope in his optics dimming as the moment stretches between them and Soundwave realizes that no, Jazz is nowhere near foolish enough to be taken in by such a fragile attempt at deceit. When he’s dragged it out enough - enough that Soundwave looks like he’s right on the edge of breaking down, like another moment will send him scattering into tears - Jazz lets his grin reach his lips.

Soundwave’s optics flicker, and shutter tight for a moment before snapping back open with Jazz’s first words.

“I’m not going to beat you, Soundwave.”

There’s a flare of uncertainty in the carrier’s field at the words, but Jazz pushes on, letting a purr of amusement touch his voice.

“Not going to tear up your plating, and not going to rip into your protoform, either. Not tonight, not for this.” A whimper. “I’m not going to starve you, either. My medic - Ratchet, you remember - says you’ll need full rations until your protoform finishes recovering from metal deprivation, and I do want you back in working order.”

And that’s enough to win him a look of genuine disbelief edged all in hope, a quiet, desperate need for it to be true, and Jazz lets himself hate the mech that would dare make another so afraid to believe in - in not even kindness, in basic decency, in the ideals of the cause that he’s dedicated himself to, in the very idea that he might not want to torture a prisoner to the ragged edge of deactivation and hold him there until an enemy raid finishes one of the two of them off.

Still. Soundwave is weak, and vulnerable, and Jazz is a professional. His voice is steady and collected as he goes in for the kill.

“So… I think the third option sounds fair, don’t you? Clean up the mess you’ve made of my floor, and we’ll go use the washracks.”

That’s it, the soft spot that the carrier’s been trying to hide - it’s obvious in the sea of despair that floods across his field. Jazz… can’t tell what it is, exactly, that has Soundwave this desperate to avoid cleaning, what Starweave might have demanded of him - but then, it’s his job to be able to root out those answers at the source, and the source is on it’s knees before him with wide, frightened optics.

But it’s not a situation he can simply trample into and demand answers - even if Soundwave would offer them, that’s not the game, that’s not how it’s done, and to be so forceful would be the height of idiocy when Soundwave is still so uncertain. Better to play confident, to sit back and let Soundwave reveal the secrets with which he’s cornered himself, then to demand answers - at least for now, when he has nothing but his own half-formed ideas on which to base his questions, it’ll be easier to simply let the mech’s own faith in Jazz’s reputation unspool him.

So, instead of push, he simply gets up, steps over to the table, pulls out the chair, and kicks back his feet to watch.

Soundwave doesn’t seem to know what to make of the casual air with which his captor is suddenly observing him. The mech stares back, as if waiting for some further order or command, but Jazz doesn’t have one to offer - he’d rather see what the carrier comes up with on his own, what Starweave might’ve beaten into him - and so, rather than offering direction, he simply casually gestures towards the mess.

“Well? I’m sure Starweave at least taught you how to clean up after yourself…”

It’s the last thing the carrier wanted to hear - that much is plain from the way he seems to fall in on himself, crumpling before the commanding tone, and presses his hand into the energon pool until he’s on all fours.

And then he leans down, and licks his glossa in a long, steady swipe through the energon, and Jazz feels almost like his processor is resetting itself as he blanks out, barely able to focus through the mix of emotions flooding through him.

Horror, obviously. Rage, so incandescent and sudden that he feels numb with it. Disgust, a little, but not as much as might be expected - he’s licked worse energon from worse places - but then, wherever Soundwave’s been made to do this before? Probably qualifies as one of those worse places.

Pity, because no wonder Soundwave was trying to hide this - no wonder he acted like being made to clean was worse than being starved, if this is what he thought Jazz wanted from him.

He watches with unsteady, overbright optics as Soundwave ducks down again, field radiating shame, and prepares to lick the stained ground again, and it’s only as he actually crouches to do so that Jazz manages to drag himself out of the fog enough to command

“Stop.”

He can’t - he won’t force Soundwave to do this, not even if stopping him will confuse him, not even if it makes him seem weak. This is - it’s unacceptable, demechenizing, and it has to stop, before he loses what’s left of control on his temper.

Soundwave staggers, sways, but he obeys the furious order, freezing in place with a muffled churr of surprise. His optics are dim, his field uncertain, as if he’s expecting some sort of new order, and Jazz can only oblige him as best he can.

“Sit up. On your knees again, Soundwave.”

Soundwave scrambles up, optics brightening as he kneels obediently, and Jazz moves closer slowly, holding his field and his temper like glass. It’s got to be disconcerting to the carrier, and his optics grow even brighter as Jazz reaches out, but he doesn’t try to bolt or duck away, and Jazz is careful to be very, very gentle as he touches the frightened face.

He runs his fingers over smooth, energon stained lips, exploring, and Soundwave’s lips part as if he expects them to be thrust inside, used to choke - Jazz forces the thought out, and presses his fingers to the lips in a sealing gesture, trying and failing to keep the tension out of his voice as he speaks.

"It’s alright, Soundwave. There are towels in the washrack, behind the door. You may use them."

It’s obvious how uncertain the carrier is, and Jazz wants nothing more than to have some way to reassure Soundwave that no, that’s not what he wants, he doesn’t expect the carrier to degrade himself for his amusement - but he’s got a role to play, and thoughtlessly spewing reassurances will only work against him, in the end. Instead, he steps back, hand dropping to his side, and gives Soundwave room to rise.

Soundwave clambers to his feet and backs away, optics still fixed on Jazz as a hand reaches behind him to feel for the wall. It’s not until he reaches it and his fingers brush the edge of the doorframe that the carrier turns, testing the handle, and then flicks his gaze back to Jazz imploringly.

Of course, it’s locked.

Jazz doesn’t want to approach and risk frightening the nervous carrier into a full-blown panic, so he flicks his fingers towards the door and unlocks it with a flicker of comms, and Soundwave slips inside.

The blue mech tugs the door shut behind himself. It’s obvious that the carrier intends to take advantage of the privacy to collect himself - but that’s alright, Jazz will allow it and let him take the time he needs, because honestly? He needs it too. He steps back to the chair and settles into it, letting his whole body go limp for a moment as he gathers the spinning cogs of his thoughts and slows them.

Soundwave… is so scared, and it infuriates Jazz as much as it amuses him, the fear in his optics by turn enticing and enraging. The mech is beautiful, his terror enticing - but Starweave’s touch, Starweave’s greasy servomarks, are all over him, and it makes something dark and territorial stir and rise in Jazz’s chest. And…

He wasn’t lying when he told the other officers that the mech was impressive. The extent of his injuries, the self-sacrifice involved in cutting off his cassettes, the sheer amount of torture that he’s withstood unbroken - it speaks incredibly well of him, of a strong, brave mech devoted to his clade and cause, and Jazz can’t quite bring himself to get real pleasure out of the thought of hurting him. Frightening him? Absolutely - the sight of such a strong mech quavering, defenseless, before him is incredible, and it makes Jazz want to purr at even the thought of his submission. But hurting him? Breaking him down even further?

The thought of Soundwave fighting him, of having to beat down the carrier all over again, makes Jazz’s spark ache.

Hopefully, it won’t be an issue. Soundwave seems determined to please, desperate to avoid provoking Jazz, and if he keeps it up, one or two real punishments may be all it takes to cow him suitably and teach him Jazz’s boundaries. Jazz is an expert, after all, and so far Soundwave has responded well to kindness. He’ll make it work.

The shower, at least, will be a chance for them both to relax. Soundwave, no doubt, will enjoy the heat and cleanness and, yes, the sensation of being touched, even if it does frighten him - carriers by their natures are reportedly quite tactile, and after so long without a friendly field, Jazz knows how addicting even an enemy’s comfort can be.

And Jazz… He wants the chance to comfort the carrier. He wants the chance to apologize for what he’s been inadvertently put through, for having made him choke and gag and lick up his own reflux - but he won’t get that chance, and so a little pleasure will have to be enough.

It’ll be easy. Just like with one of his own injured agents, soft touches and calming words, and it’s a reward, so he can make it as pleasant for Soundwave as he wants to. He doesn’t need to be stern, doesn’t need to make the other mech afraid, he can just give him a nice, relaxing shower.

That thought, and the chance to collect himself, are enough to calm him, and by the time Soundwave walks back through the washrack door, Jazz is a professional again.

Soundwave has a whole bundle of towels, and he’s clutching them almost defensively to his chest. He doesn’t try to speak, doesn’t look to Jazz for direction, just drops to his knees and begins cleaning the floor as Jazz looks on.

It takes him a little while to have the worst of it up. By the time Jazz rises to his pedes, there’s still a thin, sticky layer of energon tinting the grey floor pink - but it’s a good job nonetheless, for a mech with no solvent to get rid of the stickyness, and Soundwave is clearly doing his best to scrub away the residue with an already-soaked towel, to little avail.

“Good enough.” Soundwave glances up, leaning back a little and stilling, and Jazz circles him, as if evaluating his efforts carefully. Soundwave doesn’t shift, doesn’t move, ventless and still as he seems to wait for Jazz’s evaluation.

“In fact, very well done. I’m pleased, Soundwave.” Jazz lets a hum of pleasure taint his voice, but it seems to make Soundwave more uncertain - still, the carrier seems relieved to be done, some of the tension slipping from his shoulders at the praise. “Get up, then. Leave the towels, I’ll have a cleaning drone come and collect them.”

Chapter Text

Soundwave wavers as he gets to his pedes, seeming a little uncertain, but he glances at the washracks again, and Jazz knows that the mech, despite his nervousness, is still eager for the promised reward.

“Soundwave: understands.”

Jazz heads towards the door, but his steps falter as he sees the carrier remain stoic-still. Soundwave is clearly still afraid that Jazz is going to lash out, and he’s not following the interrogator - a wise choice from his perspective, perhaps, considering that the narrow doorway would be the perfect location for Jazz to get a few good hits in on a larger mech, but annoying enough regardless. He doesn’t need an ambush location to hurt the other mech - and Soundwave would be as vulnerable half a room away as right next to him if Jazz decided to take a few strips out of his plates.

There’s nothing to do but force the point, however, as Soundwave remains, swaying slightly, in the middle of the room where he was left.

“Well? Come on…” Jazz crooks his finger teasingly, but he makes sure that his voice, and his field, leave no doubt that the words are a command.

That’s all it takes to get Soundwave moving. He’s still tense, and his field flares brilliantly with a rush of defeat and embarrassment - and that’s something Jazz wants to work on, too. The carrier shouldn’t be ashamed for protecting himself, and at this point his obedience is his only shield.

Soundwave reaches Jazz’s side, and the interrogator reaches up and grasps his neck, dragging him down to optics-level. Best to at least begin addressing the carrier’s fears - the process of making him truly comfortable with Jazz will be a long one, but he can at least tell the carrier that he’s safe, even if it won’t yet be believed.

It doesn’t take much to pull the carrier down to his level, and the movement, fingers flicking to just inside the collar fairing of his armor, makes the mech let out a burst of startled static, the abrupt noise making Soundwave’s alarm apparent. Jazz lets his fingers run over the other mech’s antenna, rubbing gently at their base as he tries to calm the carrier, and slowly but surely, it seems to work - Soundwave sags a tiny bit, and doesn’t fight to rise.

“You don’t have to be so tense, Soundwave - I’m not going to start beating on you without any warning.” It’s true - if he’s going to punish Soundwave, he’ll make sure the carrier can see it coming, can learn to avoid the pain. “You’ve been good, done well, and this is your reward - I want you to enjoy it.”

The carrier glances up, and his confusion is obvious - Jazz is surprised when he chooses to speak, voice wavering and wary. Still, it’s encouraging to see that Soundwave is trying to understand, still has the spirit to want to learn about and adapt to his new situation.

“Soundwave: has failed numerous times. Soundwave: is to be rewarded?”

Jazz laughs gently, and brushes his field encouragingly along the other’s. “Soundwave: is to be rewarded.” The teasing mimicry doesn’t seem to bother Soundwave, so he continues: “Starweave was an… I have never agreed with the slagger, let’s put it that way. And like I said, I was expecting baggage; what I’m demanding of you is nothing like what he did to you, and I understand that. I’m not going to punish you for fearing him.”

Soundwave seems to take a minute to process that. It’s understandable - he’s obviously still trying to come to terms with Jazz’s expectations, and he’s barely been aware for a full day that he’s free from Starweave’s tortures. Jazz gives him a moment, and hums with satisfaction when the carrier speaks.

“Soundwave: apologizes for failures. Soundwave is grateful for Jazz’s generosity, mercy. Soundwave: will improve.” The carrier’s words are careful and submissive, and there’s no fight in his frame, but there’s a defiant flicker of revulsion in his optics as he speaks, and it’s clear how much apologizing to the mech holding him prisoner bothers him.

“Good.” Jazz smiles, letting a light brush over the side of the carrier’s helm be the reward for his submission - it’s more than he expected of Soundwave at this point. “Now, this,” he gestures back at the pile of rags with an airy handwave, “we’re going to work on, alright? A pet shouldn’t be afraid to take energon from his master’s hand.”

He keeps his tone smooth and light as he offers up the degrading term, but Soundwave’s field flairs with shame and mortification, and his optics brighten appealingly as he ducks his helm a little. Jazz lets himself enjoy the embarrassment, even as he does his best to soothe it away - Soundwave is adorable like this, right on the edge of defiance but too scared to fight, and the SpecOps mech can’t help but want to tease him a little more, but it’s clear that the carrier is too worn down to be played with any further.

Instead, Jazz keeps toying with his antenna as he begins to whisper reassuring words to his victim, promises to drive back the fear and humiliation.

“It’s alright, Soundwave. I’m not going to hurt you. I’ll bring you a new cube of energon in the morning - I’m not going to make you lap it off of the floor, either, or whatever Starweave had you doing.” The words aren’t enough to steady the carrier’s faint tremble, but his optics flicker with faint hope and it teeks across his field in a flash before being suppressed. Soundwave… it’s so obvious that he’s afraid, but that hope, that desperate want to believe in Jazz’s reassurances, is so obvious, and Jazz almost purrs with the knowledge that yes, Soundwave is his and he can make those reassurances a reality. Still…

They’ve got a long way to go before Soundwave is ready - and dealing with this, the energon issue, is a good first step.

Jazz continues without breaking, teeking calm/understanding/honest intent in his field as best he can.

“But… we’re going to work on this. I - and I guess this will make a good order - I don’t want you taking energon from anyone without my permission, understand? None at all, unless it comes from my hand. I won’t starve you - but you’re going to overcome this.”

It’s harsh - Jazz knows it is. It may be asking more of the carrier than he can handle - it may push Soundwave’s limits too far - but the interrogator doubts it. Soundwave’s trembling increases, the revulsion he feels obvious, but he isn’t resisting, and Jazz offers him a little more encouragement.

“It’s not forever, Soundwave, not if you’re good.” The carrier perks up a little at that - he’s still obviously repulsed by the very thought of being hand-fed again, but it’s clear he’s listening, at least, and paying attention to Jazz. “I expect you to learn to let me feed you, but this isn’t a punishment - when I’m satisfied with your progress, we’ll move on to something else, alright? But the sort of reaction you had today? I don’t want that happening again. I’m not going to choke you, or flood your tanks, or pour sludge into your lines - and once you believe that, you may start fueling yourself.”

Hopefully, it won’t take too long. Soundwave is frightened, but so far he’s been reasonable, obedient, and willing to take comfort where it’s offered. A little reassurance, some consistency - good energon offered carefully and reliably - and a patient hand when his fears threaten to overwhelm him, and Jazz has no doubt that the carrier will adapt quickly. Of course, he’ll have to be careful to ensure that Soundwave never goes hungry, never has cause to doubt that Jazz will keep his tanks comfortably full, but that’s a small price to pay - energon is but one choice in a sea of potential rewards and punishments, and Jazz is creative enough that being deprived one option will hardly make taming the mech more challenging.

Before him, Soundwave seems to be calming a little, shaking frame slowly steadying even as it sinks a little lower, and his helm tilts a bit, granting a little more access to the sensitive panelling beneath his antenna. It takes a moment, but finally, voice wavering just a bit, he softly speaks.

“Soundwave: understands. Soundwave: will learn.”

Jazz doesn’t bother to suppress the pleasure in his field at the submission, or the delicate purr, as he releases Soundwave’s collar, fingers still rubbing comforting circles on his faceplates. “Good mech. Now… let’s go get this energon off of ourselves, alright? It’s starting to itch.”

He guides the carrier to his pedes with a soft touch, and Soundwave staggers upright, unsteadily leaning a little on the hand now holding his arm. He orients well enough, however, gyros balancing out quickly now that they’ve had a recharge for the repairs to settle, and it’s not hard to get him into the washracks.

Jazz casts a longing glance at the hot oil pool. He has one of his own, of course, on the other side of the wall - hooked into the same filter as this one - but the thought of taking a soak with Soundwave, of being able to watch the carrier melt into the hot oil and dissolve with pleasure, is more appealing than the thought of a solitary steep. Jazz is almost tempted to fill the pool, just to see the surprise and enjoyment he knows it would cause, but he resists the urge - it’s too much for so soon, too huge a reward to just toss away for his own amusement.

Besides - from the condition of his frame when he was found, from the layers of filth and grime Ratchet stripped from under his plating, Soundwave will no doubt be grateful for even a brief shower, a little chance to get clean. And Jazz has no intention of keeping this brief - it’s a reward, a gift, and a chance to lavish a little affection on the carrier.

Jazz is good at showers, good at touch, and he has every intention of making Soundwave enjoy this.

He finishes guiding Soundwave into the shower stall with a gentle tap, and brings the carrier to a halt.

“On your knees again, please. Hands on your thighs, bow your helm.”

Soundwave’s compliance is graceful; the carrier slips down before him with a submissive duck of his helm and waits, still and poised, exactly as ordered. Jazz lets one hand run down the carrier’s broad, flat shoulders in a firm and affectionate gesture as the other tugs shut the screen, and then he pings the shower itself to start pouring solvent.

The hot - almost boiling - liquid splashes across Soundwave’s shoulders, and he moans, frame nearly collapsing in on itself as he’s overcome.

Plates loosen. Fans kick into high, spattering rapidly-cooling solvent in a faint spray across Jazz’s pedes, and Soundwave gasps again as the solvent penetrates deeper into his now-bared frame, glistening as it flows over the dark, metallic lines of exposed protoform. Dust, dead nanites, and old pain all seem to flow away from the surrendering frame along with the bright, diluted pink of dissolving energon, and it’s not until Soundwave seems ready to topple over, transfixed with the mix of colors in the flow, that Jazz reaches out and offers a hand to steady him.

This is better than anything he had expected. Whatever control over his field the carrier had aspired to is gone, blasted away by heat and solvent, and Jazz can taste how good the carrier feels around him as if it were a solid thing. There’s nothing else to taint the sensation, either - Soundwave is too far gone into pleasure for fear or shame or trepidation.

As hot solvent sinks deep into the carrier’s protoform, winning little moans and gasps as it does, heavy plating loosens and shifts to allow it better access. The newly-opened seams glisten underneath with a mix of colors - the gunmetal grey of healthy protometal marred by oily purple and green stains where impact damage had crystallized the top layers into a flaky, aching mess. In a few places, the metal is scarred a foamy, insensate white, and Jazz recognizes the marks of an energy weapon applied directly to the protoform - deep, painful wounds that oxidize layers-deep, making a shattered scar of splintered, dead protorust that needs to be scraped clean with a pick. They’ve been cleared out, leaving deep pits with crystallized white sides that Jazz can follow across the protoform in the thin lines of an energon whip and the thick, brutal marks of a larger, blunt weapon.

Jazz turns his attention to one of the deeper cuts, using his hand to angle a hot flood of solvent into it, and chuckles when the sensation of heat against protometal makes Soundwave shudder again and fluff his plating as wide as he can. Taking it as unintentional permission, he lets his fingers slip beneath the armor carefully, diving in along the broadest of his back’s transformation seams.

Soundwave allows the attention for a long moment, seemingly too transfixed by the feeling of hot liquid under his plates to recognize the invasive gesture, and Jazz pushes the limits a little more. It’s a little risky - plate clampdowns can have a lot of force behind them, and if Soundwave panics, he’ll be lucky if his fingers are still attached enough to need Ratchet to free him - it’s quite possible that the carrier will just shear them off. Still, his reflexes are good, so he doesn’t jerk away, instead twisting a finger to carefully scrape along the inside of his current seam.

He keeps his touches light, rubbing over the damaged protoform with just enough pressure to make Soundwave shudder under him. Damage like this is familiar, and while it's not actually that serious, Jazz knows from personal experience how sore Soundwave must be - deep injuries ache like the pit as the delicate sensors threaded through the protometal recover and reconnect, and the crush injuries are hypersensitive enough that tightening plating over them hurts.

Jazz doesn't stop with one seam, however. Soundwave's whole plating is still loose, held rigid and still under him in a clear display of nervous submission, and he lets his fingers explore, tracing down new seams. He finds sensors and toys with them, brushing across the delicate wiring beneath Soundwave's plating until the carrier almost squirms under his touch; guides careful streams of hot solvent to flow across injuries where it fizzes and begins dissolving the last of the oxidized protoforms.

It takes several minutes, but Jazz can feel it when Soundwave begins to slowly relax into his touch. He continues the light touches, not wanting to spook the carrier - it's not until Soundwave is slumped under his hands, helm low, that he speaks, voice thick with satisfaction at the carrier's surrender.

"Good mech." He lets his fingers flick back across a sensor cluster that's already earned him a tremble, and purrs in satisfaction as Soundwave shudders again. "Thought you were going to fight me, there - but no, you did very, very well. I'm pleased, Soundwave. Keep still, don't try to struggle, let me do as I wish, and there's no reason that this has to hurt, alright?"

Slowly, careful not to startle the carrier and risk a last-moment clampdown before he can clear his fingers, he draws back his fingers from beneath Soundwave's plating. Soundwave tenses, plating pulling in a little tighter around him, but he doesn't shy away from Jazz's touch. His field is fuzzy and soft, and when Jazz only strokes his hand gently across the surface of his plates, the carrier relaxes into his touch, plating slowly slumping back open.

One hand carefully holding Soundwave up, Jazz reaches into his subspace and roots around for a brush - a gift from Mirage, and the only unused brush he currently owns. The ex-noble might have slipped well into his new role as a soldier and spy, but he still keeps some of the luxuries from his former life, those he had had with him or been able to grab when the Towers fell, and the brush was an prime example of Towers quality - soft, elegant, and so expensive that Jazz would probably not have been able to afford it with every shanix he had ever seen before he joined the Autobots.

It's the perfect brush for an injured mech, and when he brushes it along the edge of Soundwave's plating, the carrier arches into the touch and purrs.

Jazz begins the familiar process of detailing the other mech's armor. There's a good amount of resin along the welds, but it comes off easily enough under a little scrubbing and rinsing, dyeing the solvent a pale grey as it washes away - there's also a few patches of stale, crystallized energon under the edges of his plating that chip neatly away with a few easy strokes. The saboteur lets himself fall into a steady rhythm when Soundwave remains calm and pliant under his hands, working his way down the seams between the plates section by section with sweeping, rounded brushstrokes.

It's an easy rhythm to fall into. Jazz is as used to detailing other mechs as he is to being detailed - it's a common ritual between the SpecOps mechs, an expression of care and affection and physical contact that affirms the bonds of trust that they rely on. He's done this many times in this exact room, with Mirage or Bee or Bluestreak kneeling under his touch as he cares for them after a mission gone sour or a bout of captivity at Decepticon hands - and yes, once or twice it's been him in this shower, solvent raining down on his shoulders as Mirage or, in one case, Optimus works carefully down his plates.

With Soundwave before him, kneeling and submissive beneath his brush and covered in the marks of torture, it’s easy to imagine himself with one of them, and that imagining brings with it a sense of phantom protectiveness - the mech beneath his fingers is safe now, he’s with Jazz, Jazz can keep him safe. The saboteur’s previous tension - previous anger - slowly washes away with the last slips of resin, and Jazz can feel himself relaxing fully as he finishes the carrier’s back.

He slips around the broad frame until he’s facing Soundwave, and draws a delicate line around the carrier’s panel - a complete replacement, with soot and resin from the weld staining the edges of the flat glass an almost dusty grey. There are plenty of stains of energon here, too, most of the liquid washed away except for the thin, long streaks that had already had time to crystalize - those brush off with hardly any pressure at all, shattering into bits and washing away in glittering streams of grey resin and pink.

Jazz finishes Soundwave’s chest in silence - the carrier seems to be enjoying his efforts well enough, and despite whatever trepidation he feels, he’s leaning into Jazz’s hands and flaring his plating to give the saboteur better access, so Jazz sees no reason to force conversation and risk upsetting him. When the carrier’s chest is done, however, he thoughtlessly holds out a hand, gesturing for one of Soundwave’s as if he were, in fact, one of his trusting agents - and he’s more than a little surprised when Soundwave obligingly offers it.

Well. It’s an expression of trust - or submission - that he can hardly not reward, isn’t it? Besides, he does want a chance to talk to Soundwave while he’s so calm. Jazz lets a purr fill his voice as he praises the carrier, voice warm and pleased.

“You’re doing so well, Soundwave. Much, much better than I expected. And you look so pretty, too - Sunstreaker really did a good job on you.”

The golden mech had, and Jazz pauses to admire the depth of the glossy blue, brilliant and rich and smoothly applied. It’s got no sparkle to it, none of the glitter of Sunstreaker’s usual paintjobs, but that does nothing to take away from the color - and complements the square edges of a carrier’s plating perhaps better than something with more shine might.

Sunstreaker had seemed pleased enough to have new frames to paint, and as always, had asked no questions of Jazz. Skilled and discreet, the twins were not unused to the SpecOps commander dropping in with a request or two - a repaint for a mech headed out for undercover work, energon blends or candies for use as bribes or rewards, and, of course, the occasional bit of quiet, observant muscle - and neither had cycled an optic at him requesting a few cubes of something sweet and fresh paint jobs for a half-dozen nearly-stripped mechs lying on slabs in Ratchet’s medbay.

Soundwave seems to have taken the chance to examine his new paint job, and he seems satisfied with what he sees.

“Soundwave: is grateful for effort, appreciates generosity. Painter: is skilled, did very fine work.”

Jazz hums his agreement - and, yes, this is a good opportunity to dangle another reward in front of Soundwave, something that he knows will excite the other mech...

“I’ll tell Sunny you said so. He’ll enjoy the praise… He’s working on your symbionts, too, and from what I hear he’s having a lot of fun with it - when he’s done, we’ll be bringing them all online.”

It has exactly the effect he expected - Soundwave’s whole frame tenses with eager surprise, and his optics shoot up to meet Jazz’s shining brighter than he’s yet seen them.

“Cohort: to be brought online? Soon?”

The words are almost demanding, but Soundwave seems so desperate for information that Jazz can only laugh at the tone - it’s the first real sign that Soundwave’s offered that he’s not content to simply lie down and let Jazz toy with him. Jazz can’t help but be amused by the way Soundwave’s optics narrow at the chuckle - and the needy relief that lights in them as he fills the carrier in.

“Tomorrow, unless Sunny takes longer than usual - he was almost finished with your quad, with Ravage, when I saw him last, and the two fliers were already done. He can be a bit of a perfectionist, but those twins of yours sounded like an easy job from what he was saying, so he’s probably not going to take too long.” In reality, they’re pretty much done - he’d checked in with Sunstreaker shortly before receiving Mirage’s report, but there’s no need to give the carrier such precise information about his clade’s status. Still… “Would you like to see them, once they’ve come online?”

“Yes!”

Soundwave’s answer is half-hissed, and the desperate want in his field is almost overwhelming - it’s clear how much the carrier craves contact with his symbionts, the desire overlaid with fear/concern/love. Jazz chuckles gently, brushing a hand down his back, and pauses as if considering before offering the carrier a little relief.

“You’ve done well today, I suppose. You’re doing very well right now… How about the little one? Ratbat? If you behave for me tomorrow, drink your energon like a good little pet, you can spend some time with him.”

Yes, Soundwave wants it. Jazz can teek it as an overwhelming surge in his field - Soundwave is making no effort to hide his desire, or if he is, he’s failing, miserably - but the carrier is shaking, too, and after a minute he’s almost sobbing, his vents churning with almost-panic, and it’s clear that the thought of his symbionts, of being allowed to see and touch them, is almost overwhelming him. Jazz feels a surge of pity, of empathy for the scared and worried mech before him, and when Soundwave shudders with another sob, he wraps his arms around the carrier’s shoulders to steady him.

“I will let you see them, you know. I don’t intend to keep them from you, if you behave well.” Soundwave takes a long time to relax, but Jazz doesn’t try to push him - he just holds on, solvent spattering down his back as he grounds the distressed mech, and gently rubs calming circles along his plating, whispering soft reassurances in his audials and letting Soundwave slowly fall apart until the carrier is limp in his arms.

Soundwave’s voice, when he finally speaks, is very, very quiet, and his voice crackles with the mix of relief and fear that fills his fear. “Soundwave: will do what is requested of him. Soundwave: will behave, will do his best for Jazz.” He pauses for a moment, voice growing even softer. “Jazz: is generous.”

Jazz laughs again. “I can be.” He lets his fingers trace the carrier’s cheek, and hums with satisfaction when Soundwave accepts the contact and leans into his touch. Still, the carrier isn’t as relaxed as he had been, half-resolved tension humming along his frame, and it’s obvious that he needs a chance to relax without Jazz looming over him, to process the day’s events without having to divide focus between his thoughts and his surroundings. His plating is clean enough, anyways... “I think we’re done here, Soundwave. Give me a second, alright?”

He shuts off the shower, tucking the brush away so it won’t be damaged by the heat as he waits for the last of the solvent to drain away. When he’s sure that the room won’t simply ignite around them - prolonged heat isn’t usually damaging, but it can be unpleasant on already-damaged protometal - he brushes his fingers across Soundwave’s plating and lets a small spark snap between them.

Solvent ignites, blue flames spreading outward along both their frames as the volatile liquid burns off. Soundwave lets out a half-choked moan as it does, hardly seeming to notice the vocalization as he’s engulfed by the fire, and by the time the last flames running along his transformation seams burn out, he seems to have regained a little confidence, optics steady and alert as he settles upright. Jazz gives him a little space once it’s clear that he’s not going to topple over - the fire, the feeling of being clean, and the thought of being able to see his symbionts seem to have done more than Jazz had expected for the carrier’s outlook.

When it’s clear that Soundwave is only waiting for Jazz to indicate what he wants, the saboteur offers him a hand up. Soundwave considers it for a moment before accepting, and it only takes a little effort to drag the compliant larger mech to his pedes. “There we are. Good as new, right? It feels good to be clean?”

Soundwave nods agreeably. “Soundwave: feels very well. Shower: was appreciated. Soundwave: is grateful.” That gratitude teeks along his field, and Jazz purrs.

“You’ll get another. I have no desire to keep you in your own filth, however… amusing… Starweave may have found it. I like to keep my pets in good condition.” The thought seems to make Soundwave a little more comfortable as Jazz leads him out into the main room - and with memories of his own missions in his processor, being held prisoner, of days and occasionally weeks spent without a chance for basic maintenance, Jazz can’t blame him. Being clean, being able to be clean, marks the line between mech and mechanimal when you have nothing else to hold onto - he knows as well as anyone what a balm it can be when a mech’s been broken down and degraded, and how much it can hurt to be deprived such a simple, necessary thing, how much the feeling of grime under plating and greasy armor can come to chafe until it feels like it’s grating across your own processors rather than rubbing at protoform. He won’t deprive Soundwave of this, not again - like energon, there are other tools he can wield to reward and punish, and the carrier deserves at least that much empathy.

Jazz guides the carrier over to his berth, letting the door to the washracks swing shut behind him as he does, and with a little finagling, gets Soundwave to lie down on the mat. The blanket, in a bin underneath the berth, is large enough to cover the carrier without too many issues, and Soundwave curls into it when he tosses it over the large frame. Broad hands grip uneasily at the warm mesh, twisting it between them, and Jazz wants to croon at the almost childish gesture - he settles, instead, for perching besides the carrier and tucking the blanket in a little more, trapping the fading residual heat of the shower in along Soundwave’s frame.

“Get some rest, Soundwave. I’ll see you in the morning, alright? I’ll set the alarm to wake you up - on your knees again, understood?”

“Soundwave: understands.” The carrier’s reply is a little muffled, the blanket covering his mouth, but his optics watch Jazz keenly as he rises.

“Recharge well, Soundwave. You’ve done well today. You’ll do well here, if you keep this up.” The interrogator runs his fingers along the carrier’s helm one last time as he turns to leave, and when he glances back, he can see Soundwave snuggle a little deeper into the blanket, recharge already tugging in the edges of his field. He watches for a moment from the doorway before slipping through, the door taking a moment to swing shut behind him.

“Hello, Mirage.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There’s a moment’s pause before the spy’s disruptor disengages, the pale blue frame flickering into sight behind him.

“How long did it take you to realize?”

“I caught on right after he tried to lick up his own refluxed fuel. Thanks for getting the towels, by the way.” Jazz lets himself lean back against the other mech’s frame as Mirage wraps his arms over his shoulders. The feeling of the spy’s field, warm and reassuring, pressed against his has the saboteur purring in comfort as Mirage guides him to the berth.

“Ah. It took me a second to figure out what you meant, I’ll admit - I didn’t think you’d let a drone anywhere near your quarters.”

“Too easy to bug,” Jazz agrees with an appreciative hum. “So, spying on me, agent? Might not be a great career move…”

Mirage laughs at that, settling down with the black-and-white mech in his lap. “Didn’t want to leave you alone, more like. Figured you might need an extra set of hands if he got feisty - and I wanted to see what was up…” Warm fingers begin to rub across the lithe minibot’s plating, and Jazz goes limp at the touch. “Good thing, too. That looked… Stressful.”

“Mhmm…” Jazz agrees with a distracted hum. “I don’t - I didn’t realize how he was going to take it - being asked to clean. There was nothing - the videos Optimus and I watched didn’t show them refueling him, ever. The fact that they were feeding him sludge wasn’t too much of a surprise, Ratchet had already pointed it out, he had to do a complete systems flush, but I had expected that that was the extent of it - we’ve all gotten sludged up by the ‘Cons at some point, it’s not that big a deal… Didn’t expect that they were torturing him with it, too. Figured the video’s’d be the extent of it.”

“It’s not your fault - although I have to say, I’m glad to hear you didn’t see it coming. I thought you might have intended it - being forced to lap up spilled energon was… not an uncommon punishment for clumsy servants in the Towers, and I suspected what he intended from the moment he got down on his knees. Of course, while I can’t say I approve much one way or the other, Towers floors were always spotless, and the energon was fresh.”

Jazz chokes out a little laugh at that. “That’s - slag, ‘Raj, that’s fragged up. You lordlings really did live a world away, didn’t you? A crazy world.”

“Of course.” Mirage leans his head back against the wall and laughs. “I can’t say I miss it. All. The gardens… It could be beautiful.”

“Heh… yeah. ‘Least you had energon to lick up...”

They sit quietly for a moment, Mirage gently rubbing at Jazz’s shoulders as the saboteur collects his thoughts.

“We’re going to have to do something about rooting this out. This wasn’t the actions of a few lone wolves - Starweave never could have gotten away with this without support, and someone trained him to torture like that. Or there’s a big pile of practice frames lying around somewhere from while he was learning - the sort of slag he was doing? Professional. I couldn’t have done better - really couldn’t have. I don’t have the experience.”

“That’s… worrying.” Mirage’s hand stills. “And Prime? Has he really not ordered us to take care of this?”

“I don’t think he knows, ‘Raj. Prime’s… you know how he is.” Jazz huffs with irritation. “He’s a good mech. Too good a mech - he’s not gonna be thinking that a whole base could’ve conspired to do that to a prisoner, even if it’s obvious to you and me.”

“Well of course not.” Mirage snorts his reply with a teek of amusement. “But we all know that Prime is hopelessly naive - Prowl would have caught on and informed him, the mech’s no fool. He would have realized the logistical improbability of the problem being limited to base command, at least… Even if we're ignoring where they even got ahold of a Decepticon Comms officer, how they managed to sneak that capture by High Command, they'd need a medic in on things... And someone had to install the brigs, requisitions would have to overlook the doors being ordered - Pit, someone would have to sign off on the brig set-up on our end, that's too expensive a request to be overlooked, and from what you've described the noise dampers were specialty hardware -” Mirage seems quite set to continue until Jazz cuts him off.

“Prowl cut out halfway through our viewing of the tapes, spent an hour in medbay purging uncontrollably until Ratchet gave up and sedated him, and spent the next two days on limited medical leave.”

“What?” That’s enough to make Mirage’s fans choke out, sputtering in surprise. “I didn’t hear -”

“Yeah, he hides it well, but the mech has no tank - I doubt he’s spent much time at all thinking about any of this, beyond potential tactical ramifications. Besides, you’ve seen the mech lately - with Scorponok officially gone ‘Con, he’s completely overworked. Be weeks before he has time to think about anything else.”

Mirage gives a grumbing hrr of concession. “Still - Ironhide? Ratchet? You’re telling me that no one in high command has thought to bring it to Prime’s attention that one of his bases was riddled with mechen who didn’t care that their commander was torturing a defenseless mech?”

“I don’t think they realized, ‘Raj.”

Mirage’s hand goes very still, Jazz letting out an irritated hum at the loss of contact.

“They didn’t realize.”

“Think about it, ‘Raj - Ratchet? ‘Hide? What the slag would either of them know about keeping a mech prisoner without letting anyone else know about it? Nothing, Mirage, because they don’t do that. We do.”

“Oh - oh, Primus.” Mirage’s helm falls forward, and he rubs his crest with a single palm. “Of course. They wouldn’t catch on - they’re idiots, they’re commanders, they don’t have to try to keep secrets from their superiors. Slag.” He glances down at Jazz.

“So, we’re going to do the responsible thing and inform our Prime of what we’ve realized, correct? So that we can be ordered to handle it by a legitimate authority, Jazz. Because we are part of a military that relies on a well understood chain of command. Correct?”

“Nah, slag that. We can handle this ourselves.” Jazz grins up at his agent with a dangerous look - one that should be, by this point, familiar to the blue mech. “Don’t need to be dumping more stuff on everyone’s plate. And Prowl was right - this isn’t the sort of thing we need ‘Cons finding out about - best we keep this amongst friends.”

“Jazz.” Mirage’s optics squeeze shut. “Jazz, no. We can’t just - we can’t just lie to Prime, we can’t just not tell him -”

“Yes we can, ‘Raj.” Jazz laughs. “Of course we - Pit, mech, what have you been doing for the last few hundred years? Of course we don’t tell Prime - half our job is keeping things hidden from Prime, ‘Raj, you can’t tell me you haven’t noticed!”

“I would like to voice strenuous objection to being told by my commander that my job is to lie to my Lord Prime.” The deadpan is enough to make Jazz snort a laugh, and after another moment, Mirage, too, can’t hold up the stiff facade.

“So, we’re not telling Prime. Are we bringing anyone in on this? Bumblebee and Bluestreak…”

Jazz shakes his head, more relaxed now that Mirage is no longer posturing, and purrs as the larger mech resumes rubbing his shoulders. “Not Bee - mech’s a little young for this yet. I don’t want anyone stopping me from tearing the mechs who did this apart when we find them, ‘Raj - I’d say we save one for Prime, but little display of bloodthirstiness earlier aside, I doubt he’d be up for the sort of punishment these slaggers deserve. Remind me to ping you the vid later, by the way - it was pretty good, for Prime. Prowl nearly glitched himself. As for Bluestreak…”

Mirage huffs. “He’d be useful, except anything he hears goes back to Prowl.”

“Exactly. And he brings it to Prime, who makes it an official investigation -”

“- and brings it up with the rest of the command, which means that Ironhide hears about it -”

“- and brings it up with the Wreckers, so they can keep an eye out -”

“- so Blades hears about it, because he’s always hanging out with them -”

“- which means the whole Protectobot gestalt knows, and the Aerialbots’ll find out, and at that point, half the base knows and there’s no keeping it secret. So Bluestreak’s not the best choice for this one, I think. You, me, Hound if we need him - we’ll bring the others in if we have to, but not before.”

Mirage groans. “Fair enough. I’ll ask around - the mechs we brought back from Elom are chatty enough, I’m sure I can find a mech who knows a mech. If not… well, I’ll start looking a little harder.”

Jazz nods. “I’ll do some digging of my own - and I’ll put Blaster on the scent, too. You know how it is for him - there were symbionts involved. It’s personal.”

“Sounds like a plan. I’ll keep you updated - if I don’t find anything, I’ll have a report for you in a few days. I know Prowl wanted a security evaluation done on the newcomers anyways - I’ll double down and get that done while I’m at it.”

“Good mech - Bee’ll be happy, apparently they’re not used to minibots. He was getting a lot of slag - fragging him right off, too, so it’ll be good to be able to tell him he’s off the job next time he comes into my office shouting.” Jazz pauses, pulling up duty schedules in his visor. “I’ll pull you off monitor review - that should give you plenty of time to mingle.”

Mirage nods his agreement with a serious teek in his field. For all that the tone has been light and casual between them, this is a mission - and Jazz is a taskmaker, despite his friendliness. “Understood.”

“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Mirage?” Jazz’s voice is light, but there’s an undeniable string of tension beneath his words. Mirage’s optics dim a bit, and he adjusts his hold on Jazz’s smaller frame.

“I’m not going anywhere tonight, Jazz.”

“Hound’ll be missing you.” Some of the cheerfulness slips out of Jazz’s voice, and his field, still friendly, takes an unhappy teek. The grin that he so easily puts on fades a little, and Mirage can see without seeking the glint of upset hidden behind the blue visor.

“Hound already knows.”

Jazz squirms a little at that, trying to pull away, but Mirage doesn’t have to struggle to pin him down and hold him - if the saboteur intended to put up a real fight, the spy would have lost the moment he tried to hold him in place, but both mechs know that it’s only a cursory struggle, and Jazz soon gives up with a groan.

“I could order you to frag off, you know.”

Mirage’s hand gently traces the black-and-white mech’s shoulder, and his voice has none of the half-stressed, joking irritation that Jazz’s holds. Instead, it’s almost disappointed, the comforting tone tinged with a little sadness. “Jazz. You know I can’t leave you alone tonight - and Medical’s orders supersede yours, anyways.”

The last traces of Jazz’s resistance subside as he glances away, refusing to meet Mirage’s optics. “Yeah, I know.” He curls a little tighter into the frame holding him, letting Mirage hold him a little closer, and his next words are soft:

“Don’t really want to be alone tonight, anyways.”

Chapter Text

Ravage snarls, low in her throat, tail flicking her fury, at the red-and-white mech staring her down with wide, bright, blue optics.

This isn’t Soundwave. He isn’t here, and this mech is no ‘Con, and he knows her name.

The thought is enough to twist like poison in her lines. Soundwave… would not have told the Autobots of their sentience, would not betray her, betray his symbionts, betray his clade, not unless the names were ripped from his lips, and she wants to tremble at the thought of what might, after so long, have broken her carrier.

Behind her, Ratbat chirps pitifully, pressed against Laserbeak’s side, and the older aerial croons, soft and worried, and urges him to be silent, to be still.

The Autobot glances over at him, optics dimming just a hair, and reaches out ever-so-slightly -

Ravage lunges. Teeth sink into armor, sharp enough even after months of disrepair to rip, tear, make bleed - but the mech has a medic’s thick plating, designed to bear a heavy load and withstand even the struggles of a panicked convoy or shuttle, and even as she gouges against it with teeth, claws, kicks she can tell she’s only scoring it.

The medic, nonetheless, squeaks, and then shouts his surprise:

“Blue!”

He shakes his arm, once, then again, harder, as hard as he can, and Ravage is sent flying back, skidding across the smooth metal surface of the medical berth even as she gathers her feet back under her and surges forward.

She doesn’t lunge again, though, only twists to stand between her clademates and the blue-opticked medic, snarling savagely until he backs away a little, hands raised.

“Aid?”

The mech who pops his helm into the room is not blue, but the medic glances over and smiles delightedly anyways - a too-happy smile, one without fear or anger or even pain, one that makes her want to gnash her teeth with anxious rage: he doesn’t fear her.

He won’t stay away from the others long if he doesn’t fear her.

Ratbat is chirping again, more anxious than ever, and Laserbeak lets out an unhappy chirr, and Ravage has no idea where Frenzy and Rumble are except that they’re not here, and Soundwave is not here, and she has to find them and keep them safe but she can’t without abandoning the two defenseless fliers behind her. They’re not in pain - yet - but these mechen are brutal and dangerous and they know her name, they know all of their names, and the situation is spiraling out of control faster than Ravage can possibly piece it back together.

The medic is still smiling like a little idiot.

“Oh, sorry, Bluestreak. I didn’t mean to alarm you - Ravage bit me, and she got a pretty good grip and was kicking a little, and it kind of hurt - but I’m okay now!”

Wait - what? No, that’s - no it is not okay, he is not okay now, and this time when she lunges with a snarl it’s to go straight for his optics, and then they’ll see how slagging okay it is!

The silver mech - Bluestreak? - moves, and… Oh. Oh, wow. He’s… fast.

She twists and surges against his grip, clawing desperately up at the hand holding tight to the nape of her neck, but he doesn’t seem to care, holding her at arm’s length so she can’t rip into his chest or the sensitive biolights scattered across his frame. Even the deep cut she leaves in one of his lines doesn’t seem to phase him - and it’s with a yowl of indignation that she realizes that the worthless fragger has turned off the Pit-damned pain sensors to his entire Pit-damned hand!

The yowl seems to startle him, and the silver mech shakes her, gently enough to set her entire world to swinging nauseatingly. Eventually she has no choice but to still in his grasp, unless she wants to purge all over him - tempting - and deal with several hours of ensuing processor-ache - probably not worth it.

The sight of the medic looming over her clademates, however, is enough to make her reevaluate that decision.

Ravage hisses and spits her fury at him, desperately lashing out with claws and rakes she knows will fall a dozen times too short, and screeches.

“GET AWAY FROM THEM!”

The room falls utterly silent around her as she goes limp, dizziness chasing her. Four sets of optics fix on her - Ratbat’s wide, bright gaze tucked beside Laserbeak’s gratitude as she tugs him back and away, her current captor’s alarm, and the shock-morphing-to-delight in the optics of the medic.

“So you can speak Neocybex! Blaster said you should be able to, but he didn’t think you would - he said something about traditionalists and clade-protection that didn’t make much sense, too, but I’m used to that with him. He gets touchy talking about carrier-stuff.” The medic steps closer, and Ravage snarls.

“Please, don’t worry!” The medic backs off, hands rising. “I’m not going to hurt you. Oh, ah - my name is First Aid. I’m a medic - Ratchet’s apprentice, although he says he hasn’t met you, so I don’t know if that means anything? But I’m not going to hurt you. That’s my friend Bluestreak, who’s holding you - he’ll put you down if you promise not to attack us…”

“I’ll rip your Primus-damned throat out.”

The flicker of shock in the medic - “First Aid”, what a weak name - ‘s optics as she snarls the threat is gratifying. At least he’s not that much of a fool - but neither is the mech holding her, apparently, and his grip edges a little tighter.

“Ah… please don’t?” The medic’s voice is hesitant, inquisitive, as if he thinks that asking like that could possibly ever work, and she spits her rage in a flurry of hissed curses and worse threats. He seems to droop at the aggression, and the mech holding her shifts uneasily, as if uncertain of what to do with the furious ball of hatred now restrained solely by his firm grip.

Let him wonder. She’ll rip him to shreds the moment he lets go - scruff her, will he?!

After a long moment, the medic looks up again, past her at her captor. “Can you, ah… just hold her? I want to get a look at the fliers - the little one had a weld thing -”

“Of course.” The mech shifts a little, and Ravage twists to see his face - gets a good kick in on him, too, that’ll need a repaint! “I’ll keep an optic on her while you take care of the others, if you want. I turned off my hand so she can’t hurt me.”

“Oh, Blue, you really shouldn’t -” The reprimand trails off, forgotten, as the medic steps towards the two huddled aerials. “Hey, sh… I’m not going to hurt you. Just let me see, okay?” He holds out his hand, but with a panicky glance at Ravage, Ratbat shuffles back, and Laserbeak takes advantage of proximity to land a savage peck on one of his fingers.

Now that’s gratifying - the way the hand snaps back with a yelp of pain, to be clutched against the red chest as Laserbeak puffs her armor in proud aggression.

“Hey, I’m trying to help! Please, just let me see him?”

She lets out a furious churr, wings flaring, and Ravage has never been more proud in her life.

“Fine. I didn’t want to… please, don’t freak out, this won’t hurt…” He presses a button, and Ravage can only watch with bright optics and a panicked hiss as Laserbeak and Ratbat both lose their sudden battle against the now-magnetized berth. Unable to fight, Laserbeak can only let out a frightened cry as her wing is shoved away, Ratbat dragged from her protection and into the hand of the medic - and then the berth demagnetizes just as suddenly, and she struggles to her pedes and screeches with distress. Her wings are still too numb for flight, Ravage knows, and a leap for the smaller cassette will only end in a tumble to the floor far below, and then she’ll be of no use at all to the small frame peeping in terror in the medic’s grasp.

“Hurt him and I’ll kill you!” The quad gives another twist in the silver mech’s hands, howling in fury when it does nothing. “I’ll feed you your own processor chips! I’ll tear at your energon lines until you drown in your own fuel!”

The medic glances up at her in something like concern - a far cry from the nervous terror she was aiming for, but almost reassuring, until he speaks and she abruptly realizes that, no, he seems to be mistakenly concerned for her.

“Please calm down. You’re all safe here. I’m not going to hurt your brother - I have brothers of my own, though, and I guess I can imagine how worried I’d be if one of the Decepticon medics wanted to poke around at them, but I really do promise I’m only going to look.” He turns his attention back down at his hand, a blunt finger reaching down to prod and poke and pin Ratbat down, but…

It doesn’t crush him - or at least, that’s what Ratbat says, worry and fear tugging at the cladebond. There’s no pain, so he can’t be lying, and Ravage feeds him what reassurance she can offer as he’s nudged, flattened, and summarily examined - pausing every so often to growl a few more choice invectives at the larger mechs in the room.

Finally, though, the medic seems done with his ogling, gaze rising to the berth where Laserbeak huddles limp and alone. She’s staring up at him with distress in her optics, and Ravage feels a surge of pity for her sister - Laserbeak is always so protective, and being so close and unable to rush to her brother’s defense must be tearing at her.

The medic looks down at her and smiles.

“It’s alright - he’s fine. The welds I was worried about took alright - I just had to be sure.” Slowly, carefully, he lowers his hand to the berth, and Ratbat scrambles back to his older sister and Laserbeak lets out an eager, desperate cry as she shuffles him back into her protection.

“Now, you…”

The medic’s attentions return to Ravage, and she hisses, unwilling to offer him even the satisfaction of her gratitude.

“Ah, sorry, please calm down, I just wanted to ask - could Blue just, ah… put you down? Or would you bite us again? Because… well, you’re not allowed out of this room, but you’re very fast, and I’d rather not get in trouble with Ratchet… Or Prowl, for letting prisoners escape…”

She barks a laugh, as cruel as she can make it. “I will rip your sparks out and crush them in my teeth!”

The medic seems to deflate a little at that.

“Oh...”

He hesitates before stepping out of sight, and despite her best efforts, she can’t twist to see what he’s doing with a big gray chest in the way.

When he steps back into view, though, the object he’s holding makes her plating flare with indignation, and she can’t deny the stress that rockets through her frame.

The collar, thin and black, is an absolute insult.

“You think that piece of… of scrap is going to hold me?” She snarls, and yeah, she’s feeling angry, and yeah, she’ll wrap that little bit of black rubber around the medic’s throat and choke him with it - as soon as his pit-damned idiot afthead of a friend lets go of her!

He may not be able to feel her claws as they rake over his servo, but it feels good, and the little annoyed huff the medic lets out is excellent. Yeah, he’ll have to buff those out. Hopefully he’ll be able to once she’s torn out his optics!

She opens her mouth to spit something of the sort, but the medic beats her to it.

“It’s very strong. It’s rubber over cable, see? It’s got a tracker, and it’s got a charge running through it - cut through the rubber and it’ll shock you pretty badly, and if you try to attack us again, it’ll shock you, too.” He looks a little upset. “So please don’t - Wheeljack and I just finished putting you back together, and I don’t want to have to redo all your circuits, too!”

Oh.

Well, that’s better. Not great - the thought of them being able to shock her if she attacks them is infuriating, of course, and the fact that she’ll have a tracker around her neck will probably make escaping, or at least getting a good wander around the base, almost impossible… But, well, at least they’re trying. At least they’re not rude enough - or stupid enough - to think that a simple rubber collar will restrain her.

When the medic reaches out to put it on her, she bites him - of course - but it’s more of a cursory bite, sort of an obligatory chewing rather than a serious attack. Of course, she’ll still tear him to bits the moment she can get away with it, but… being held by her scruff swinging like this is kind of miserable, and Ratbat is peeking up from beneath Laserbeak’s wing and looking more and more distressed at the sight of her hanging here, and he’s peeping worriedly and that’s never good.

Once the collar is on, she unclenches her teeth before either of the mechs gets the idea to try the shocker out, and goes limp as she’s lowered to the berth.

Ratbat rushes at her, despite Laserbeak’s desperate attempt to stop him. Ravage feels a surge of fury, the desperate urge to protect him, and twists, pressing him behind her and in the same move turning to threat the two mechen above. “Hurt him and I’ll kill you!”

The grey one - Bluestreak, she reminds herself - looks only a little amused by the threat, but the medic looks honestly perturbed. Not… not the reaction she wants. Good enough, anyways. She’ll make do.

Both of the full-sized mechs back off a little - they seem content to lean against the wall and watch, and it’s unnerving, but she’ll deal with it. Laserbeak keeping a good watch over her shoulder - and oh, but the younger symbiont’s being brave, and Ravage shoves enough pride down the bond to make her ruffle her feathers happily - the quad turns her attention to the youngest symbiont. Ratbat is curling into her, wriggling between her pedes until she’s forced half off balance by his frame, but Ravage can’t quite bring herself to tell him off - not when his field is still teeking worry and fear and cheeping up at her with bright, nervous optics.

She bends her neck to nuzzle him, nipping affectionately at his parabolic audial collectors and letting a purr thrum through her casing before returning her attention to the enemy mechs.

“Stay - stay over there, understand? I don’t care about the collar - touch us and I’ll make you hurt!” Her launchers are missing - all of her aux weapons are missing; it’s a relief they’ve left her integs intact, considering how much of her frame they make up - but she flares her plating aggressively anyways. It feels good to puff up a little - these aren’t the largest mechs she’s had to fight for her siblings, but they’re still solidly, solidly outside her weight class. What she wouldn’t give for a couple of chump minibots instead…

The medic moves slowly, glancing at his friend before raising his hands in what a more charitable mech might consider a peaceful gesture.

“We’ll stay over here, okay… Do you think we could talk, though? I have a few questions…” Questions… aren’t great. Still, she can use the chance to wring her own answers out of him - she’s no youngling, to be outtalked by a bright-opticked idiot medic and his grabby friend!

“Fine. Ask.” Laserbeak churrs behind her, and the flyer’s gentle touch brushes against the quad’s mind.

::Should we be talking?::

No, they shouldn’t be. Generations of instinct, hard-coded and demanding, insist that she should be silent, should defer to her carrier’s words and let him be her face here, amongst enemies - but Soundwave’s not here, and Ravage is the oldest symbiont, the cleverest, the one who’s survived everything a long functioning has thrown at her, and she hasn’t done it by mindlessly kowtowing to her own Pit-damned programming!

::Don’t worry about it, Laserbeak. Just… try to keep Ratbat calm, and see if you can get in touch with Rumble and Frenzy. Let me worry about the Autobots.:: She can’t help the little surge of relief when Laserbeak’s focus shifts, though the stillness where the twins are is worrying - they’re awake, they feel unharmed, but they’re not here and they’re not talking -

Oop. The Autobots are, though - or, more precisely, they were, and now they’re staring expectantly at her and she didn’t listen to the question.

“What?” She snaps, rolling a shoulder forward irritably. “I’m sorry, I didn’t care?”

That gets an unexpected chuckle from the grey one. Good. Laugh. Yes, she’s witty - wittier than him, the big dumb numb-handed slagger…

“I wanted to know how much you remember about the last few weeks?” And Primus in the Pit that patient voice is annoying. She wants to shake the medic until he hits her - what the slag is loose in his processor? - but she wants her own answers more, so she’ll have to actually put up with the questioning.,

That doesn’t mean she has to be nice.

“Nothing out of the usual - got taken apart a bit, got the slag kicked out of me, that sort of thing. Your dumbaft friend didn’t seem to realize we were sapient - but then, he got a real kick out of beating on us when he realized that it would make Soundwave scream.” She pauses, and yes - that gets a real cringe out of him, and an unexpectedly disgusted teek. Hm… a soft-spark, then. Maybe she can make him purge - she’s up for the revenge, her tanks are still churning from being swung about.

Still, better to keep her focus - for the moment, at least. Besides, Ratbat’s listening, and even the mention of their carrier’s pain is making him whimper with worry… “What’d you do with him, anyways?” She puts all her aggression behind the question, bristling a little more, but the medic -

Oh for Primus’ sake, he’s smiling again.

“Soundwave’s alright, I promise! He’s still - you’re all still - technically prisoners, but Ratchet got him fixed up, and you’re safe now. No one’s going to try to hurt you like Starweave did, really!”

Huh.

That’s not the answer she was expecting, but to be honest, the little medic seems earnest - his field is bright and open, and he’s teeking pleased. If he’s not lying…

Oh, Primus, she wants him to be telling the truth. Soundwave… she still can’t feel him, he’s blocking her, and she understands why but it burns to be shut out like this. She wants him back. She wants to fold up in his deck and feel his field around her as she recharges - it's been months.

And she's used to being alone - this isn't the first time she's had to make do without a carrier. Ratbat... even Laserbeak and the twins ache with need, with desperate want, but Ratbat's too young to survive without a carrier.

Beneath her, he whimpers, and she ruthlessly surges to suppress her worry - but that only makes him start crying in earnest, and Laserbeak hurries to coo reassurances as Ravage guiltily unblocks the bond. Without Soundwave’s warm presence, the youngest symbiont needs their presence more than anything - even if her feelings distress him, too - and she wraps her mind around his and envelopes him in her affection.

The medic is talking again.

“Is he - I’m sorry, is this upsetting him? We can talk about something else - I didn’t realize…” He trails off at her growl, a hand half-extended as if to touch them. “Sorry…”

“Our brothers.” She keeps her voice low and threatening as she straightens to face him again. “Where are they?”

“The twin mechlings? Rumble and Frenzy?” He pauses, smiling softly when she gives a narrow-opticked nod. “They’re okay. They had a few fried sensors that we couldn’t detect until they onlined - they’re online right now, but sedated. Wheeljack’s working on them - don’t worry, he’s a very precise microsurgeon. He helped Ratchet repair you all, too.”

It’s not good news - she’d really rather have her brothers here, even if their sensors are a little fritzy, than have some Autobot digging around in their wiring - but the fact that they’re being repaired at all is mollifying. She… her own repairs are good - as good as she’d expect from Soundwave, even, not the shoddy, fast get-em-up work that Hook does - and if the Autobots have decided to start offering medical care to their torture victims, she really can’t complain. Not if it means that her siblings are whole - not if it means they’ve put Soundwave back together.

“I want them back.” Pit, she can’t even bring herself to snarl with the numbing relief flowing through her frame. She knows where her siblings are - the twin’s bonds feel like the dull silence of a mech under heavy sedation, so she’ll trust the medic for now. She knows - Soundwave is still alive, and the dull thrum of pain that’s been all she’s been able to get down the bond for weeks is gone. Her legs feel weak, and she lets herself sag down over Ratbat, curling around him as he churrs. They’re not scared of her anyways - no point in bothering with bluster. “I want them back, when they’re fixed. I want them here.”

The medic’s optics are gentle, and this time, she doesn’t bother fighting when he reaches out to touch her beyond a half-sparked nip. He flicks his fingers out of the way, but doesn’t pull back - and the gentle scratch he gives, right at the nape of her neck, isn’t bad, though she has to roll her shoulders under him a few times to get him rubbing the right spot.

“Of course. I wouldn’t try to keep you apart, I promise. We’ll bring them as soon as the repairs are stable - you don’t have to worry.”

Besides her, the grey-and-red mech is approaching, too - he’s got something in his hands, and Ravage cranes her head around a bit to see what it is. A… box? There’s a sudden surge of protective worry that dissipates like smoke against her exhaustion, and she tucks her head down to snuggle back around her brother. This wouldn’t be the first time a full-frame’s decided that it would be clever to shove Laserbeak or Ratbat in a box, but she’s not teeking the usual malicious glee in his field that would accompany such a plot. Laserbeak can handle herself, and she’s got a good grip on Ratbat - she’ll have plenty of time to shred the mech if he actually goes for him.

Well, she had a good grip on him. Ratbat’s got a view of what’s inside when the box opens, and whatever it is, it prompts a surge of radiant, eager excitement down the bond, and before she can refocus, he’s wormed his way out of her grip entirely and made a dash for whatever it is. Ravage is on her pedes and in pursuit in moments - but the grey mech lowers the edge of the box a little, and Ratbat makes a flapping leap and pulls himself inside before either of his sisters can stop him.

There’s no pain or panic down the bond, though - not from Ratbat, anyways - and none of the claustrophobia Ravage has come to expect from a trapped flier. Instead, there’s only eager chirps, and the grey mech lets the box tip over all the way, lowering it to the berth slowly enough that at least it’s not going to bounce Ratbat about.

The little flier comes rolling out in a string of peeps, claws and teeth digging into the mesh strips that he’s enravelled himself in.

Oh. Yes, that would certainly cause the excitement.

Ravage hesitates, staying just out of arm’s reach of the grey mech. He’s looking down at Ratbat with warm optics, but he doesn’t seem to be doing anything to harm him…

“You like that, don’t you?” The medic is more forwards - he reaches out and runs his finger over the little cassette’s back, gently stroking the thin seams that trace the border between wing and frame before helping Ratbat untangle one grasper from the mesh. He glances up at Ravage with a smile. “Blaster - he’s a friend of ours, a carrier, too - said that he’d probably want to make a little nest… so we went out and found a couple blankets to tear up.” Pede free, Ratbat raises it in the air, wiggling his little claws for a moment with a look of astonishment on his face before toppling onto his back. First Aid looks a little worried, but Ratbat only flops towards him enthusiastically, peeping, and Ravage can’t help the longsuffering sigh.

“He wants you to rub his belly.” The words are enough to make the medic perk up, but it’s the grey mech who reaches out and teasingly brushes his fingers over Ratbat’s underside - earning a wave of excited chirps from the little cassette.

Ravage wants to stop them - wants to snarl and drive them off - but… Ratbat’s so happy, the first bit of happiness she’s felt from him in months, and the two mechs don’t look inclined to hurt him - really, they look like full-framed sparklings, giggling and crooning over Ratbat as they are. And Ratbat needs the contact, needs to have other mechs around him, and this… She’s so tired.

Ravage strides past the three - four, Laserbeak seems to have gotten herself involved, and one of Bluestreak’s hands has her pinned almost flat to the table but she’s churring enthusiastically and there’s excitement, not fear, in the bond - and over to the box of scraps. Fine. Until something changes - until these two idiot mechs turn on them, or one of their less-friendly fellows comes along, she’ll let the younger cassettes have their fun - she's got no way to get them away from the larger mechs anyways. It doesn’t take much effort to start separating the mesh scraps out, tugging apart the tangled bits, and instead of worrying, Ravage lets herself focus on the work, until at last she realizes she has an audience.

First Aid has somehow managed to persuade Ratbat that, yes, he does want to curl up in his hands and be cuddled - it’s not that much of a challenge, really, although it says nothing good about the flier’s self-preservation instincts. He’s come over and is watching her work, his voice honestly curious when he speaks.

“So, what are you doing? Blaster didn’t say, but do you want to build a nest, too?”

The question, asked so innocently, is enough to make her bristle. “Do I look like a sparkling to you?” But it’s not worth getting in a fight over, not when he’s got Ratbat so close at hand. “I’m helping Ratbat. He’s too small to tug these big bits around while they’re all tangled up - I’ll pull them apart, and he can do what he wants with them. Better than him just flopping into recharge on top of a heap of bits…”

“Oh!” The medic’s optics cycle, and he reaches down and begins picking a few scraps apart with a free hand. One of them must glitter enticingly, because before he can react, Ratbat’s diving out of his hands and has pounced, leaping back and forth with his prize before flapping excitedly over to Ravage.

It’s not the largest piece, but not a tiny scrap, either, and from her experience with her brother, it’s easy to tell what about the shiny purple metal made him so eager to claim it. He struts about proudly, letting out a barrage of peeps when First Aid offers him a hand up with his trophy wrapped in his claws and sets to praising the little flyer. Laserbeak is watching too, and she lets out a gentle croon, and it’s so good to see her siblings having fun...

Ravage returns to her work with the meshes with a little huff, more resigned than annoyed, and she can’t help the purr building below her tanks. It doesn’t take long to get enough of the mesh unwound for a proper nest, and when that’s done, she flops on her side on what’s left. Maybe she’ll just watch, for now. Ratbat and Bluestreak are having a tug war over the scrap, and Laserbeak’s egging her brother on, and… eventually, this’ll end, if it’s not all a dream to begin with, but, unexpectedly, Ravage finds herself willing to put up and see what’s going to happen next.

Chapter Text

Waking up to the alarm’s beep, the second time around, isn’t as bad.

For one thing, Soundwave’s comfortable, not sprawled out on the floor and aching from a few hours of kneeling. The room is dimly lit, and he’s laying on a supple berth, one pliant enough to fit even his broad frame, and with a soft, warm blanket tucked around him. It’s strange, almost alien, to be awake and not in pain, and Soundwave lies still for a few moments, collecting himself and pulling together his memories of the last day.

Starweave’s dead, and he and his symbionts have been repaired. Jazz - and the memory of the other mech’s identity makes a rush of fear run through his lines - the Autobot Third-in-Command, Prime’s torturer Jazz, seems to have decided to make him into… what? A pet, a slave?

A toy for his own amusement, whichever it is, and Soundwave has no idea how to describe how he feels about that. He… he doesn’t want to admit that he’s afraid, doesn’t want to give in, but Jazz is terrifying and more dangerous than Starweave ever was, and oh, Primus, but Soundwave doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want to be tortured again, doesn’t want his clade to be hurt... And Jazz is more than capable of that. If anything Soundwave’s heard about him is true, he’ll enjoy watching Soundwave - watching the cassettes - suffer...

But Jazz, so far, hasn’t been what Soundwave expected when he looked up and recognized that blue visor and vicious smirk. Jazz has been gentle. Jazz has been… merciful? Kind seems too far a stretch, but the night before, in the shower… the touches had been terrifying, but never once hurt. It… a lot of it had felt good, soft touches designed to make him feel good, and careful, thorough cleaning that had eased the itch and ache from his frame and gone far beyond what even Soundwave would usually bother with… If… if that’s how Jazz treats his toys, if that steady mercy is what he can expect if he behaves… Soundwave can do his best to please the other mech, if it means not being torn apart again, if it might earn him and his clade a little more of what is, to a mech so used to pain, nearly addictive compassion.

And then there’s Laserbeak, and that’s the most bewildering thing of all, confusion and hope and desperation all mixed up together. Jazz touched her, held her, took her from him, but the torturer didn’t hurt her. Instead, he… What? Stroked her? Cuddled her? Even though she was in stasis, and there was no way for her to feel it or complain if her wings were a little crimped or he wasn’t supporting her enough, Jazz had carried her cautiously, and even if the carrier can’t guess at what might motivate the delicate treatment, Soundwave feels a surge of gratitude for it.

And Jazz had offered to let him see Ratbat today…

If he behaved. Which, upon reflection, means getting up, and promptly - Jazz had said to kneel again, to be waiting for him, and Soundwave has no way of knowing how much time he’s been given, how much warning the torturer has offered... The carrier pulls himself upright, only to nearly collapse again when the room spins wildly, his apparently still-calibrating gyros making the bed seem to list under him.

The medic’s advice comes to processor - to focus on a fixed point and wait it out - and Soundwave lowers his helm and focuses on a thin, dark scuff on the floor between his feet. The swaying motion that seems to have consumed everything around him isn’t enough to do more than make his processor ache, but there’s no way he’ll be able to move until it’s gone, and so he lets himself fixate, blocking out everything except the dizziness and the mark, and slowly, the ache does begin to fade, the room steadying…

By the time he’s got the worst of the discomfort under control, several minutes have passed, and it’s with more than a little trepidation that he turns his attention back to the room at large, half-expecting the nausea to return. It doesn’t, though, and the room stays steel-steady enough to make him vent with relief.

The hand on his shoulder squeezes down a little, and Jazz’s voice asks, with an almost teasing lilt, “Feeling better?”

There’s a hand on his shoulder.

Jazz is touching him.

Surprise and terror shoot through Soundwave’s frame in equal measure at the sudden and entirely unnoticed appearance of the torturer at his side. He doesn’t - what should he - he seizes in shock, frozen with alarm, too frightened to react or move or apologize or do anything at all to mitigate the situation for a long, long moment.

Then his processor catches up to his frame, and he slowly, carefully, lets himself slide to the floor, shifts until he’s just far enough away from the berth to do it properly, and bows his head in submission to the other mech.

Jazz’s hand moves with him, never leaving his shoulder, and Soundwave wants to shrug it off, but no - that’s a terrible idea. If Jazz wants to touch him, he can - what is there to do but allow it? Jazz can hurt him, touching or not. Better to let him do what he wants, even if it makes something inside the carrier squirm uneasily…

The warm hand doesn’t stay pressed to his shoulder, though. It traces its way up to his antenna after a few moments - and what is the other mech’s fascination with them, anyways? It’s felt good so far, the constant, soft touches are pleasant and almost comforting, but… it seems so strange, for Jazz to be so intent on the sensors…

A little soft pressure is all that the torturer needs to apply for Soundwave to shove those thoughts aside and raise his gaze to the other mech’s. Jazz’s field teeks nothing more than mild amusement, telling him almost nothing, but the black-and-white mech doesn’t look angry… he actually looks rather pleased, the start of what might be a smirk dancing across his lips.

“Good mech.” A slight scratch at his antenna, and the smirk grows. “Well? Are you feeling better, Soundwave?”

The carrier doesn’t know how to respond - he’s still shell-shocked from the other mech’s sudden appearance - but Jazz seems to understand, and the torturer clucks his glossa sympathetically.

“Gyro troubles, right? It’s alright, Soundwave - Ratchet said that some calibration issues might crop up. Are they clearing up, or do you need a medic to recalibrate them for you?”

Soundwave shakes his head even as the unexpected offer sinks in. “Gyros: settled. Soundwave: does not need medical attention. Dizziness: unanticipated - not serious.” It’s true - by this point, they seem to have flattened out nicely, and he can feel his processor settling down too as the new input regularizes. Still, the fact that Jazz was willing to offer him the attentions of a medic…

Then again, it’s unlikely that a slave that can’t even stand would hold the canny mech’s attentions for long - and from what Soundwave’s seen, the torturer has the Autobot medics in hand, enough that ordering a half-dozen nearly-dead mechs repaired for his own entertainment isn't a challenge. Having someone come spend a few minutes tweaking his sensors seems relatively minor by comparison if it'll make him functional, hardly any work at all after the investment in time, energy, and parts that it must have taken to fix them the first time… Of course, he’s also heard that some medics get touchy over their projects, fixated on perfectionism in their repairs. For all the deference the medic had seemed to show to the TIC, Jazz seems to have a healthy regard for Ratchet… perhaps the medic would simply be irritated enough at knowing one of his repairs hadn’t taken to insist on mending it?

Regardless, Jazz seems pleased by the reply. “Good - I’m glad. Didn’t really want to have to spend the day in the medbay… It’s alright, mech. You’re doing fine. Did I startle you, coming in like that?”

Soundwave nods a hesitant affirmation. “Soundwave: apologizes. Jazz: was not noticed. Soundwave: was focused on calibrating gyros, failed to pay attention to surrounding.” He pauses, weighing his chances against the look in Jazz’s visored optics. “Soundwave: did not intend to fail to obey Jazz’s orders. Failure: will not be repeated.”

That gets an honest-sounding bark of laughter out of Jazz. “It’s alright, mech. I wasn’t planning on punishing you for a bit of dizziness - nothing you could’ve seen coming. Like I said, Ratchet warned me you might have a few issues. And you did good, once you noticed me there - that’s enough for now.”

Jazz’s words make Soundwave slump a little in relief. The torturer seems… almost intent on being reasonable, on some sort of concept of fairness that seems to involve pleasantly little abuse to the carrier’s still-healing frame, and Soundwave can appreciate that. It’s far better than Starweave’s indiscriminate tortures - or even, although the carrier hesitates to let the thought take hold, the irrational, erratic mood swings of his former commander, a mech who, when the mood struck him, punished success as eagerly as he did failure.

The memory of Mirage’s words rings in Soundwave’s helm as he contemplates what to say next, how to reply. He can be patient with those he chooses to take to hand - and the carrier ruthlessly pushes the next ones, the ones about pain and suffering and wishing for death, out of his mind.

“Soundwave: grateful for Jazz’s lenience. Soundwave: will do his best to please Jazz.”

“I appreciate that, mech.” Jazz offers a soft laugh at the carrier’s words. “You’ve been doing well so far. I brought a little something for you, though - maybe we can see how much you really mean that, hm?”

The torturer gestures towards the berth, and Soundwave tenses at the sight of the tray settled neatly atop it. That he doesn’t appear to have, in his alarm, spilled the brimming cube of energon it’s carrying is a relief - but the thought of what the glowing fuel means makes stress begin to rocket through him like a building charge, cables tightening, plating shifting to clamp a little tighter.

He does his best to fight it, to stay still, but Soundwave can’t beat back the tremble in his shoulders, or the way his field flares with fear. Jazz lays a firm hand on his shoulder, guiding him towards the berth, and Soundwave shuffles along, compliant but unwilling - and he hesitates, uncertain of what’s expected of him, when Jazz’s touch leaves him, and the smaller mech swings himself up onto the berth to settle, frame easy and field relaxed, facing Soundwave.

Jazz reaches towards the cubes with a loose gesture, and Soundwave can’t help the pained, frightened, and utterly humiliating whimper that escapes his vocalize. He can’t stop the choked sob that follows it, either, the way his frame curls in on itself defensively - and when Jazz’s gaze flicks back to him, he can’t keep his from hands rising to protect his cassette docks or his helm from ducking to avoid a blow.

Jazz stops.

Jazz stops, and looks up at him, and pulls his hand away from the cube.

“Does the thought of being fed by my hand again really disturb you so much, Soundwave?” He pauses, and even though there’s no anger in his field, there’s a sense of faint annoyance - and of disappointment. “I told you, I’m not going to hurt you. You’ve tasted the energon - you know it’s good.”

Soundwave knows it’s true, or, at least, it’s as likely to be true as anything that Jazz has told him. The energon the night before was sweet, was some of the best he had ever tasted - and even if it hadn’t been, Soundwave needs to fuel, needs to learn how to fuel in a way that will satisfy Jazz, if that’s what will keep the other mech happy and the carrier fed, but…

The fact that he can’t even think about it without wanting to wretch is mortifying.

Jazz seems to read his reluctance, his irrepressible revulsion, in his field, and the torturer lets out a vent, the sound hissing over the noise of Soundwave’s uneasy shifting in a long, irritated sigh. His hand shifts, gentle pressure pushing the carrier’s helm back a little, and Soundwave moves with him obligingly despite the sudden rush of fear - but the torturer doesn’t reach again for the cube settled on the tray besides him.

“It’s alright, Soundwave. We’re won’t start yet, if it upsets you that much. Just try to calm down, alright? I’d rather not have to clean up another purge.”

Jazz’s touch is firm, and Soundwave squirms under it - his words are humiliating, the memories of the day before mortifying, and the carrier just wants this to be done with, to choke his way through another cube of energon -

But apparently, that’s not what Jazz wants, because the torturer’s hand slips down, raises Soundwave’s chin until their optics meet, and gently strokes a thumb over his cheek.

“I told you yesterday, Soundwave. This isn’t punishment. Or torture.” The finger brushes across the sensitive plating again, still mesh-light. “I want you to learn to trust that. And I’m willing to give you time, Soundwave, time and effort. I want your effort, and your obedience - not your pain.”

Trust? That’s… that’s more than Soundwave can give, today. But… if it means Jazz won’t hurt him, if it means that there’s even a chance he really does intend to let Soundwave see Ratbat, the carrier will do his best to pretend, to accept the energon willingly. It helps that he’s… still not hungry, not real hungry, but his secondary tanks are empty and he really would like to be full again, to have a chance to build up his fuel reserves until a few days without fueling isn’t enough to force him into stasis.

Obedience is easier to offer. If it’s a choice between that and more pain, Soundwave will do his best to please Jazz - or at least amuse him.

“Soundwave: will obey.”

Jazz seems pleased enough by the response. “Good mech. I don’t expect perfection, Soundwave…” This time the thumb brushes across the carrier’s lips, and Soundwave lets them part a little, uncertain what the torturer wants. “Tell me what makes this harder for you, Soundwave. Tell me what I need to work you past - and what will make this easier for you, if you know. I don’t want fueling, giving in to me, to be miserable for you - and I don’t want this to be forever.”

That’s enough of a question that Soundwave has to think - has to focus on refueling, on what Starweave has done to him, on what so frightens him about Jazz’s touch - and it makes him feel nauseous even without fueling, the phantom sensation of hands on his throat and between his lips and a soft voice whispering humiliations in his audials enough to make him choke a little. Jazz doesn’t react, lets him work through it without making a teasing comment or snide remark, and Soundwave feels an irrational surge of gratitude towards the other mech.

The words were the worst bit, easily, if he lays aside the toxic sludge being poured into his intakes and the constant pain wracking his frame. But how to phrase it so that Jazz doesn’t take offense, understands what he means…

“Starweave: often mocked, derided Soundwave while refueling. Speech: makes refueling difficult, is distracting…”

Jazz laughs, but it’s not entirely unkind. “Humiliating, you mean? Makes you feel embarrassed - makes you feel ashamed? I can understand that…” He pauses, and smirks. “But I’m not going to put up with it, Soundwave. I expect you to listen to me whenever I want to talk to you - understand?”

Soundwave nods helplessly, washed along on the irrepressible tide of Jazz’s confidence.

“What kind of things did he call you, Soundwave? Tell me - I want to know.”

“Weak. Foolish. Disgusting.” He hesitates, glancing away. “Mechanimal.” The word makes him shudder in revulsion, and shame and disgust fills his field - but Jazz doesn’t laugh or taunt him at that. Instead, the torturer’s other hand comes up to help cradle his face, and his helm tips forwards until it’s resting against Soundwave’s.

The gesture is almost intimate, and there’s no mocking in the black-and-white mech’s field. Instead, Jazz teeks of encouragement, of reassurance and pity, and it’s hard to handle, hard to deal with the sudden, unexpected sympathy he’s being offered. Jazz is being… being warm, and bright, and comforting, and Soundwave can’t understand what he wants - he’s not being tortured, not being degraded, he’s being treated like…

He doesn’t know.

Jazz lets out a soft hum, probably teeking the confusion in his field, and his voice is low and mellow when he speaks. “It’s okay, Soundwave. I’m not going to call you that… He was wrong to call you that. You’ve been very brave, you know that? I know you’re scared of me - but you’re trying so hard to be good.”

Soundwave… isn’t sure how to feel about that. Should he be proud, that he’s submitted so eagerly to an enemy? Should he feel pride for having caved so eagerly when the alternative was more torture? His mind says no - but instinct, pure and base, just reminds him that anything, anything at all, is better than watching his cassettes suffer, than being torn apart and welded back together over and over and over.

Jazz keeps talking, voice gentle. “And you’re not foolish, not disgusting. You survived, didn’t you? Survived everything he could throw at you. You’ve adapted, you’ve endured - that doesn’t make you disgusting, Soundwave.”

Soundwave wants to make Jazz stop, wants to shake him. Soundwave’s... even if Jazz believes what he’s saying, even if he means it, there’s no reason for Jazz to say it. Soundwave’s a toy for him to play with, a slave to be used as he wants - why is Jazz trying to… to make him feel better? It makes no sense - nothing does, not the gentle touches or the kind words or the way Jazz seems so willing to reward him, to wash him and let him see his symbionts and give him fuel that’s better even than what he got with the Decepticons. Jazz doesn’t make sense - a terrifying, whirling enigma, and Soundwave can’t tell if he’s a kind mech who should be a monster or a monster playing at kindness.

“Are you alright, Soundwave?”

It takes the carrier a moment to realize that he’s been asked a real question - one that he has to answer.

“Soundwave: is not damaged.” He knows it’s not what Jazz wants before he says it, but he says it anyways. What else is there to say - how else could he possibly phrase his confusion, his worry, the still-rising unease in his tanks? What does Jazz want - what does the strange, dangerous mech want him to say?

Jazz doesn’t really seem displeased by the response, however. He lets his helm rest, still pressed to Soundwave’s, and lets out a little chuckle - and it’s different from his previous laughter, almost genuine, and without a trace of mockery or unkindness.

“That’s okay, Soundwave. That’s good. I don’t expect you to be anything else, for now. You’re not a mechanimal, Soundwave - you don’t always have to know how you feel.” Oh… That, that feels good. It feels good to have Jazz look at him, touch him, and say that with such sincerity ringing in his voice and field - years of taunting, of defending his symbionts against mechs who would dismiss them as such, have fashioned it into a slur that cuts deeper than any other, and he almost trembles at having it’s use against him so effortly dismissed.

One of Jazz’s hands slips from where it cups his face, slides easily down his neck to settle on his shoulder, and begins to weave along the cables there with a light, easy touch, and Soundwave lets the touch relax him - and when Jazz doesn’t stop, doesn’t seem to mind at all, he carefully presses up into the pressure. The smile that Jazz repays him with is pleased - it’s obvious that his acceptance is what the torturer was seeking - but not cruel, and Soundwave can’t bring himself to be afraid when Jazz’s fingers pause to scratch at the edge of his cabling.

Whatever Jazz wants, whatever he’s trying to do to the carrier, Soundwave can’t bring himself to care, not when he’s being so overwhelmingly kind.

“Soundwave…” Jazz pauses his touch for just a moment before resuming, leans back a little until he’s looking down at the carrier. “Soundwave, I’m going to give you fuel now, alright?” That’s enough to make the carrier tense despite himself - he wants to stay like this, calm, safe, but it was never going to last, and Jazz is just going to humil -

Or maybe he won’t. He’s said that this isn’t a punishment, a torture, forever - maybe he won’t make it mocking, won’t make it hurt. Maybe he really does intend this strange, incomprehensible kindness to continue - maybe he does want Soundwave to forget Starweave’s touch, the taste of Starweave’s toxic fuel and the sound of Starweave’s toxic voice in his audials…

Slowly, slowly, while Jazz watches patiently, Soundwave forces himself to relax. The nod he gives is hesitant - too hesitant, he worries for a moment, but when he glances up to meet Jazz’s optics, the torturer is smiling.

“Good mech.” The hand on his shoulder slips away, reaches over to lift the energon cube again, and Soundwave can’t help a whimper - but when Jazz’s optics flick back to him, concerned, he forces himself to straighten a little, to steel himself for what’s coming. He’ll - he has to do this. He wants to do this - he wants to stop being afraid of Starweave’s tortures, to lose his fear of Starweave’s cruelties. That Jazz is willing to help him - and the sting is so much less if he thinks of it as ‘Jazz helping him’ instead of ‘Jazz playing with him’, ‘Jazz toying with him’ - is good, and he wants it.

He almost convinces himself, even.

Jazz strokes his audial gently, rubs two fingers down his antenna in a gesture pleasant enough to coax a purr from his lips.

“I’m going to fuel you, alright, Soundwave? Just like a medic - nice and easy. We’re going to go slow today, okay? Slow, and if you get too stressed, if you need to take a break, I’ll let you. I’m not going to make you purge, I’m not going to try to choke you - I won’t even touch you if you don’t want me to, not beyond holding your helm. But I am going to talk, alright?”

He pauses, as if Soundwave might be considering protesting. Soundwave isn’t.

“I’m going to talk - about you. But I’m not going to tease you. I’m not going to call you names, Soundwave, or try to mock you. I’m just going to talk about you - and if it gets to be too much, I’ll stop, and you can finish fueling, but I do expect you to try to listen, understand?”

This time, he waits for a reply - and it takes a few moments for Soundwave to catch on and nod his understanding. Despite that, Jazz seems pleased.

“Good mech.”

The cube presses to his lips carefully, Jazz’s hands steady to prevent it from sloshing. He waits obligingly until Soundwave parts his lips to pour it, not starting off with the rush of fluids that the carrier is used to from Starweave’s feedings, and for the first time, Soundwave really tastes it, focuses of the clear, sweet notes of the rich fuel and the slight sour tangyness of the additives rather than his own stress.

It’s really, really good - the sort of fuel older mechs tell stories about from before the war, before they were left with nothing but low-grade rations designed more to bulk out a tank and make sensors feel full than actually fueling a mech. This fuel sets his sensors alight - it fizzes as it goes down, effervescent with charge, and the thought of a whole cubeful seems almost overwhelming, like that charge will burn through him and burn him out.

The thought’s not that unpleasant, when the fuel’s this good.

Above him, Jazz chuckles, but it’s not unkind. “Not making fun of you, mech, I promise,” he offers when he sees Soundwave looking up at him again. “Just… it’s nice to see you enjoying the fuel, alright? Much better than last time. I’m glad you like it.” That’s… not terrible. It aches, a little, to be reminded so bluntly about his last attempt at refueling, but Jazz doesn’t seem to mean it cruelly…

“You’re doing very well, Soundwave. You’re doing so well - better than I thought you would.” This time, Jazz’s voice is softer, and the fingers on his antenna begin to rub along it again. “This isn’t so bad, is it, Soundwave? And when you’re done, I’ll go and get Ratbat, and you can have some time with him, alright? You’re earning it.”

That makes the carrier purr with excitement despite himself. Ratbat… he wants to see his little symbiont so much, more than any of the others, really - Laserbeak, Ravage, the twins, they’re all grown, they can handle themselves, but Ratbat is so young and trusting and fragile, and the thought of all the harm that could come to him in enemy hands is terrifying. And… Soundwave can’t protect him, not really, and Jazz won’t let him keep him -

Before he can stop himself, Soundwave is sputtering - but Jazz pulls the cube back slightly before he can choke, the hand on his audial squeezing with a light, reassuring pressure.

“It’s okay, Soundwave - you’re doing just fine. Vent it out - you’re going to be okay.”

It takes a long, uneasy moment to get his tanks under control, Jazz’s touch constant and unhurried. When, at last, there’s no more fear that he’s going to purge, Soundwave lets himself glance up, meeting Jazz’s optics.

“Thank… thank you.”

It feels defeatist, to show gratitude to his captor - but this is so much better than purging again, so much better than having slurs and derision whispered in his audials, and Soundwave is half-surprised by how much he means the appreciative words.

“You’re welcome.” Jazz brushes a finger along the corner of the carrier’s mouth, wiping away a tiny line of escaped energon, before offering the cube again. He’s patient, waiting until Soundwave’s got a good angle on it and is ready before tipping it back again - and Soundwave can’t help but be reminded of his symbionts as sparklings, learning to fuel from cubes, and carefully wiping away the utter mess made by two hungry beaks that were in no way designed for sipping.

Once he’s got a handle on the new flow, the fingers of Jazz’s free hand drift… lower, this time, to his neck. They play along the slender cables there, and Soundwave wants to jerk away - but the torturer doesn’t start to choke him, and so he forces himself to stay still. It feels nice, if disconcerting - the area is sensor-rich, and when Jazz rubs his fingers between the wires, it sends little wavelets of soft pressure rolling up to his processor.

Jazz keeps it up, the stream steady and his touches gentle. This time, when Jazz starts to speak, his voice is a little lower - a purr that sends static fire through Soundwave’s struts and makes his tanks roil.

The voices are nothing alike, nothing at all, but Jazz’s tone is so like Starweave’s that it takes several moments for his actual words to register.

“You’re doing well, Soundwave. You’re beautiful, you know that, right?”

The words, said so casually - their implications - make Soundwave’s thoughts scatter in a million directions at once. Confusion/disbelief/horror/doubt/fear - but beneath it all, he can’t escape the crushing sense of gratitude, of appreciation, because it feels so good to have someone look at him and praise him, find some facet of him worthy of a kind word. But it makes no sense, he’s not beautiful, he’s nothing special at all to look -

"You're clever, too..."

That's even better. It feels… even better, just hearing someone say it - even if he’s not sure why Jazz would. Soundwave is smart, he knows he is, but it's been years since... it's been a long time since anyone cared about it, cared about him enough to notice beyond that whatever job he had been assigned had gotten done. And Jazz is - Jazz has no reason to praise him, but also no reason to lie, and that purr makes him want to curl up and beg for mercy but it doesn’t hold even a note of dishonesty, like Jazz really believes the things he’s saying...

“And... you’re a good carrier, Soundwave.”

That’s what finally makes him choke. No, he’s not! Failure - his cassettes are hurting, his cassettes are somewhere else! - but Jazz hasn’t stopped talking, even as he pulls back the cube and lets Soundwave slump forwards, shoulders wracking with sobs…

“You are. Brave… strong… intelligent… You spent months being tortured, and they’re all still alive, aren’t they? More than any reasonable mech could’ve asked of you… and you did so well.” Soundwave just wants… He needs Jazz to stop, to give him a moment, to give him a little time, but Jazz just keeps talking, and what he’s saying isn’t true but he sounds so sure, so confident.

“Still alive, and they’re repaired.” They are, yes, and he needs to figure out what Jazz wants, figure out what to offer the torturer so they’ll stay that way, but he’s unreadable and confusing and Soundwave just wants him to shut up, to stop talking so that he can figure out what’s going on, so he can understand - but Jazz is still going, still overwhelming him with that steady, sure, brutal voice…

“They’re awake, and all together. Even now, you’re keeping them safe, trying so hard to obey me… They’re safe because of you…”

“Please: stop…” Soundwave finally manages to whisper, to whimper the words, and Jazz does. The torturer lets his words trail off, stills his vocalizer, and the sudden, blessed quiet breaks whatever control Soundwave has left.

It’s just more humiliation. Sobbing, crumpled on his knees before Jazz, Soundwave half-expects a brutal blow for his weakness - but Jazz doesn’t lash out at him. Instead, the smaller mech leans forward, helm resting against Soundwave’s again, and this time Jazz wraps his arms around the carrier’s shoulders in a firm embrace.

This time, when Jazz speaks, it sounds nothing at all like Starweave.

“It’s alright, Soundwave. It’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you, Soundwave, you’ve done nothing wrong, and you’re going to be alright. You’re safe. You’ve done well. You’re going to be alright…”

Jazz keeps whispering reassurances in his audial as Soundwave tries to sort out his panicked thoughts, and the words… they should calm him, they should help, but all they do is add to the confusion, and he still doesn’t understand… Soundwave is shaking, his shoulders trembling with the force of his sobs despite his best efforts. The fear - the panic - clawing at his spark is overwhelming, and his frame aches as cables tense, as wiring and hydraulics push taut, and he feels like a single touch will make them whip apart, make him collapse, unwound, entirely.

But Jazz just keeps holding him. He wants to break away - but Jazz is there, and real, and he doesn’t want to be alone -

“Soundwave… listen to me. Just listen. I’ll tell you what to do, okay? You don’t have to think. You don’t have to be scared.”

Yes. Yes - he can listen, he can listen, he can do that, if that’s all he has to do -

“Stop thinking, Soundwave. Just listen.”

The thoughts snap away like crystals underfoot, and suddenly, Soundwave feels… hollow. Empty inside - and Jazz’s voice, though it continues, seems to continue at a very great distance.

“It’s okay, Soundwave. You’re okay. You’re panicking, alright? You’re having a panic attack. You’re going to be alright, though. Do you understand that? Nod if you do, please.”

He should nod, he thinks. That’s what Jazz is telling him to do, right? The thought seems hard to reach, somehow… and he’s not sure if he does understand. It… it doesn’t feel like he’s alright. This… this isn’t what alright feels like, is it? He isn’t alright.

Soundwave shakes his head.

“That’s okay, Soundwave. It’s okay if you don’t understand. I’m not going to be angry with you for not understanding. Can you move, Soundwave? Don’t try - just nod if you can.”

That… doesn’t seem like a good idea. His tank is still churning, and every cable in him is still so tense - he’d topple over if he tried. Soundwave shakes his head again.

“Alright - you don’t have to move, you’re fine where you are. I’m going to cover you with a blanket, alright? You’re venting very hard, and I don’t want you to overwork your heaters to compensate.”

Jazz moves, shifts away from him. The arms holding him slip away, the helm pressed to his pulls back, and there’s a brief moment when his panic surges up - but by the time it’s had a chance to really threaten, there’s a soft mesh being pulled around him, and the hands are back, pressing down on him and holding him still and steady all at once, and the fear drains away ineffectually before it can build to a crushing wave.

By that point, the words have had a chance to sink in.

He’s venting hard? Soundwave doesn’t think so - by this point, however, his frame feels a million miles away, and so he spends half a thought to check. Yes, they are - his entire frame is spinning up, he’s overclocking his fans - and that’s really not good for him. Still distant, he thinks that maybe he should stop…

It takes a real effort, as half-focused as he is, but the fans weaken, their desperate churning slowing at an aching pace.

“Good mech.” Jazz’s voice is very, very quiet. Soundwave has to strain, really focus, to hear him. “Good job, Soundwave. That’s - that’s very good. Are you feeling a little calmer?”

No - but yes, he is. It takes a minute to realize it, but he feels - not quite so stretched out, perhaps? Not quite so empty. Jazz’s touch and words are grounding him, and his loose terror is dissipating, and Soundwave slumps forward in relief as the feeling of hollowness fades and is replaced by numbness.

He’s still confused - still afraid - but it’s different, now, and Soundwave hesitantly nods.

“I’m glad.” Jazz is a warm presence around him, holding him, and the carrier feels like he should pull away - show deference, show gratitude, maybe - but he doesn’t want to lose that contact. Jazz seems unbothered by his need, so Soundwave stays, and lets the touch comfort him what little it can.

“I’m glad, Soundwave. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how hard this would be for you - it wasn’t my intention to hurt you or make you panic. Do you think you can talk to me? It’s up to you - I won’t push you, if you need a little time.”

He sounds sincere, and Soundwave appreciates it - but he can talk. He’ll talk, if that’s what Jazz wants - the worst of the fear is gone, and he just wants to rest, just wants to see Ratbat, if Jazz will still let him. He feels numb, still - he just wants to hold Ratbat close and feel him instead…

“Soundwave: can talk.” Jazz shifts a little, and the carrier feels the uncertain need to continue, the words almost spilling out of him. “Soundwave: is sorry; did not intend -”

Jazz cuts him off.

“It’s okay. You don’t need to apologize - I’m not angry.” His field teeks sincerity, and beneath it, a layer of honest worry too well-hidden to be faked. “I just want to talk. Just want to talk - and I won’t get angry, whatever you tell me. Alright?”

Soundwave nods helplessly along with the torturer’s words. Jazz doesn’t sound angry, but he’s seen too many other mechs turn suddenly savage to dare chancing his temper, not when he still feels so pathetic. Jazz lets out a low, rumbling purr, and pulls him a bit closer, and the gesture is as nervewracking as it is comforting.

“Do you like it, when I praise you, Soundwave?” That’s not really the question he was expecting, and it takes the carrier a moment to process. “Do you like being praised? Does it feel good, to hear that you’ve impressed me?”

Soundwave spends a moment processing that, mulling over the answer. He doesn’t want to lie to Jazz - not when the other mech is being so strangely gentle, and more importantly, not when the torturer has proven utterly adept at sniffing out his lies and turning them against him, into knives to twist at his throat.

“Soundwave…” A second more, to organize his thoughts. “Soundwave: does not… dislike... being praised, complimented. Soundwave: is unused to being spoken of in such a manner. Soundwave: finds it difficult to understand.”

“Why is that?” Jazz’s tone is casual, field is loose, but something in the words belies the absolute focus the torturer is paying to his responses.

“Jazz: is Autobot, captor, -” and even as pitiful as he’s feeling, Soundwave can’t keep the distaste out of the word - “ master. Soundwave: is toy, slave. Jazz: has no reason to praise Soundwave. Soundwave: cannot understand why Jazz continues to, regardless.”

That gets a soft laugh from the torturer. “You panicked over that?” Soundwave pulls back a little, jerks away - he knows he’s weak, it’s obvious, but it’s worse to have his face rubbed in it like this, to have Jazz point it out and mock him for it. Jazz’s hands catch him, though, before he can move away, and the torturer’s voice is apologetic when he continues.

“I’m sorry, Soundwave. I didn’t mean to laugh - I wasn’t laughing at you. I was surprised - I had expected a different answer, that’s all. Thank you for being honest with me.”

One of the torturer’s hands drops, slowly, to the carrier’s back, holding him close, but at the same time rubbing relaxing circles over the metal, and Soundwave lets himself accept the closeness.

“I wouldn’t have kept you, if I didn’t think you were worth praising, Soundwave.” Jazz sounds certain, and the carrier focuses on his words, needing whatever explanation the minibot is willing to offer. “I don’t keep useless things, or ugly ones, or fools. Not as my agents, and not as my playthings, either. I grow bored too easily - I would not have bothered you, if I didn’t see something in you that appealed to me. I try to be a fair mech - I wouldn’t have chosen you as my pet if I didn’t think you could adapt to the role. I don’t set my mechs up for failure.”

That thought is disconcerting - a flush of pleasure at the compliment, at the thought that such a feared, powerful mech saw something in the carrier worthy of his attention, wars with horror at the realization that he might so easily have evaded the other mech’s attentions entirely… But then, would that have been any better? Would Jazz have bothered to take him away from Starweave, if he hadn’t wanted Soundwave for himself? Would he still be trapped there, in agony - or would he be safer, be in a new prison somewhere well away from the attentions of either of the vicious mechs?

Jazz’s next words answer that well enough. “You’d be rusting in a cell somewhere, waiting for Prowl or Optimus or one of the other commanders to decide what to do with you if I hadn’t seen anything of value in you. But I did - and so you’re mended, and your symbionts are safe, and I’ll take good care of you as long as you continue to behave.”

Oh.

That’s true - and it raises a fair point. Laserbeak… when he held her, even offline - even with one hand! - it was obvious, how badly Starweave had hurt her. If Jazz hadn’t intervened, would she even be alive? Would the other Autobots even have known enough to realize she was worth saving, or might they even have, in an act of maliciousness or ignorance, offlined her themselves?

Pit, even inaction might have finished her off. Without repairs of his own, Soundwave might not have been able to save her even if they let him try… let alone all five of them, if the other four were as badly damaged.

“Soundwave: is grateful. Soundwave: will serve Jazz, behave. Soundwave: Understands.”

This time, when he says it, he feels almost like he really does.

“I’m not impatient, pet. I’m willing to give you time, I told you that. Today - you really tried for me. You did well. Tomorrow, we’ll try again, something a little different, maybe, until we find something that works for you.” Jazz laughs a little again. “I’ll teach you what I expect, Soundwave - training is what makes a good pet, after all, not just fear or idle submission. But you’re clever - you’ll learn.”

This time, the words - the thought of being treated and trained like a pet - don’t have the same sting to them that they had the night before. They should make his now-still tanks heave - but instead, there’s a sense of embarrassed relief. When the panic had overtaken Soundwave, it had felt good to have the other mech tell him what to do - and if the Jazz is willing to show the carrier how to please him, what to do to avoid pain and punishment, and be patient with him while he learns, then the stress of uncertainty and fear at not knowing what the torturer expects of him can fade.

“Do you think you can move, now, Soundwave? Come on - up on the berth.” Jazz rises slowly, offering a hand to help the carrier up with him, and Soundwave feels a surge of appreciation at the thoughtless, generous gesture. Jazz guides him into the mattress, tugging lightly at the edge of the blanket until it curls around the carrier neatly, and Soundwave pulls it up a little more, hiding what he can of his bared face. It’s no mask, but even so, it feels good to have something between him and the torturer, to be able to conceal himself that little bit, and Jazz doesn’t seem bothered by the attempt.

“There we go.” Jazz settles back along the edge of the berth and runs his hand over the carrier’s shoulder. “You okay now, Soundwave? Are you going to be okay if I leave for a while?”

Soundwave… really doesn’t want to be alone, despite the fear Jazz still inspires in him. Still, the edge of true panic seems far away, now, and he’ll be alright if the other mech leaves, he shouldn’t collapse again. He won’t give in to the panic again. The carrier hesitates for only a few seconds before nodding.

“Soundwave: will be fine. Jazz…” he trails off uneasily.

“I’m just going to leave for a bit, Soundwave. I’ll be gone for an hour or two - I have a few things I have to do - and then I’ll bring Ratbat with me when I return. You two can spend a few hours together, okay?” Jazz’s voice is warm and pleased as he straightens.

“Jazz: is generous.” Soundwave watches warily as the torturer crosses the room, and when Jazz reaches the door, he glances back over his shoulder.

“You can rest, if you want. I’ll make sure you know when I’m coming back - I’ll give you ten minutes, alright?” But the other mech slips out the door without waiting for Soundwave to answer, and he’s just… alone, curled in a blanket in a dim room, with a tank full of energon.

His entire frame still aches, even now that he’s more calm - his former tension having put enough strain on his welds to cause aches. Aside from that, though, he’s comfortable enough… and a little more recharge sounds good, almost - at least in recharge, he won’t panic, won’t have to deal with the ever-grasping fingers of fear that had almost dragged him under once already. The recharge that he eventually falls into is shallow - fitful, too, with physical discomfort and the still-fading aftereffects of stress.

Soundwave’s chronometer confirms that he’s been in recharge for just under three hours when the sound of peeping finally wakes him up.

Chapter Text

Soundwave’s chronometer confirms that he’s been in recharge for just under three hours when the sound of peeping finally wakes him up.

It’s soft, at first - a quiet chirp that builds in volume as he slowly rouses.

The carrier flips over, mutes his audials, and tries to get back to sleep.

He’s tired - Ravage or Laserbeak can feed Ratbat. He’s going to get some more rest. His frame is aching, like all his cables have been run out and stretched tight, and the berth is warm.

The hand that shakes his shoulder is decidedly too large to be Rumble or Frenzy’s - and that has him awake, systems humming up, optics onlining: Who the Pit is in his bunk?

Oh.

Oh.

Jazz is laughing down at him - his momentary confusion evaporates like fog at the sight of bright blue optics, and he can feel tension building as he realizes his mistake - but the face that catches his optic tears all that away in a single stroke, because isn’t the torturer’s…

It’s the tiny, eager face peering over the fingers of a single hand, and the two little wingpaws clutching onto the edge of one of those fingers.

Jazz is saying something, and Ratbat starts to wiggle, and Soundwave unmutes his audials to more excited peeps and the trail end of the black-and-white mech’s sentence.

“- tired as Pit, huh, Soundwave? You awake now? This little guy’s getting hard to hold onto…”

Jazz holds out his hands, and Soundwave scrambles to free himself from the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, tugging it free from his frame just in time to catch the little flier as he overbalances and topples off Jazz’s palm with a sudden chirp. Ratbat’s little graspers latch onto his carrier’s familiar plating as he begins to slip again, scrabbling for purchase on the smooth metal, and Soundwave is quick to lower him onto the blankets before the symbiont can lose his grip and tumble again.

By the time the carrier has Ratbat safely situated, cuddled up in the blanket and nestled carefully in the crook of his elbow, and looks up, Jazz has dragged over - or had already dragged over, Soundwave can’t tell - the chair, and is settled in it and grinning.

“You two are cute together.” The torturer’s field is honest and amused, and he doesn’t seem bothered by being ignored in favor of Ratbat. “He was so excited when I told him I’d bring him to visit you - couldn’t get him to stop cheeping the whole way down here. Sweet little guy.”

“Soundwave: is sorry he was not awake; did not hear alarm…”

“It’s alright, Soundwave.” Jazz doesn’t seem upset; he’s smiling… “I didn’t bother setting it off. Thought I’d surprise you, and you need the recharge anyways…”

Soundwave feels a surge of relief at that - he hasn’t failed, yet - but his attention is quickly drawn back to the small frame in his arms as Ratbat begins to squirm again.

Ratbat’s bright optics peer out at Jazz, and a single wingpaw manages to worm it’s way out of the blanket and wave towards the black and white mech, stretching out as if reaching for him. Tiny fingers, claw-tipped and thin as wires, wiggle towards him, and Jazz slowly reaches towards him.

Soundwave’s first instinct is to pull back - to keep the symbiont as far from Jazz as he can - but Jazz stops at his first flinch, and the hand retreats to a more comfortable distance. Jazz hums softly, the noise halfway between a purr and a croon - and when Soundwave looks up, the torturer is gazing at him with a patient look in his optics.

“May I, Soundwave? I didn’t mean to alarm you…”

The question is entirely unexpected - it’s been so, so long since someone asked before touching one of his symbionts, even if the request is one he can’t risk refusing. Most of his… colleagues… wouldn’t have bothered, he knows that from experience, but at least with them he could fight back, force them to stay away. With Jazz, though, that would be suicidal…

And Ratbat does seem to like the torturer. It’s an entirely unexpected response from the little symbiont - but Ratbat is young, too young to be a good judge of character, and the tiny mechling can be so trusting… Still, if Ratbat isn’t afraid…

Soundwave slowly, cautiously uncovers the symbiont, letting Jazz get closer - ready, if the torturer looks like he’s going to hurt the flier, to shove him out of the way and take whatever consequences may befall him. He survived three months of torture in silence, for a cause he didn’t love nearly as much - he lets that thought steel him, the knowledge that, for his clade, he will be stronger still.

He hopes.

Jazz doesn’t do anything to hurt Ratbat, though. The torturer’s movements are careful, and he doesn’t try to lift the symbiont, take him back - instead, he gently offers his hand palm-up, a single fingertip close enough for Ratbat to reach.

The tiny flier squeals excitedly, and his wingpaw slaps down on it in an ungainly pat with an enthusiasm that’s almost unrecognizable, after spending so long with only the memory of his clade’s broken frames to hold on to. Ratbat seems delighted, regardless - at Jazz’s compliance, or Soundwave’s presence, or something else entirely, it’s impossible to guess without the bond.

And now, with Ratbat whole and awake and peeping up at him, fingers turned to grasping at a fine groove in Jazz’s fingertip, it’s more tempting than ever to open that bond.

Ratbat’s the one that suffers most without it. Soundwave knows that - with a visceral grief that makes him want to tremble with a wholly immaterial pain, he understands how much his absence, the absence of the bond, must be hurting the youngling, how hard it must be for him without the love and guidance of a real carrier, one who can protect him and keep him safe. Soundwave…

If he’s honest, he had expected the symbiont to hate him, to lash out at his worthless carrier for abandoning him, for getting them all into this mess, for being so weak as to be captured… it’s what he deserves. And Ravage, Laserbeak, the twins… even though it twist at his spark, he knows that they probably despise him. Ratbat is just too young to hate him properly yet.

Really, he should open the bond. He needs to be able to keep an optic on them, needs to make sure that they’re really safe… But there’s so much uncertainty, still. Jazz has been so reasonable, seems so kind, but he’s still a jagged crystal, dangling overhead, poised to run Soundwave through at the first vibration, and the carrier can’t let his cassettes suffer that with him, doesn’t want them to feel his pain… If Jazz decides to torture him, it should be he who suffers.

Jazz is, at least, looking at Ratbat with a gentle affection in his optics, and Ratbat would not be so fearless if Jazz had hurt him, if the torturer had hurt his siblings. And Jazz has, so far, been more than fair… he might truly intend to keep them safe, if Soundwave does what he wants.

Ratbat lets out an irritated squeak as he loses his grip on the finger yet again, and Jazz laughs. The genuine warmth of the sound is enough to drag Soundwave from his dark thoughts, and the carrier adjusts his grip as Ratbat wriggles in the blanket, too energetic to let himself be coddled for long.

The thought of letting the little flier stray from his hold is uncomfortable - even in the best of situations, the urge to keep such a young symbiont leave his side would have been. Millions of years of carrier instinct, instincts that have kept their code-class and frametype alive, scream that the only place that Ratbat is truly safe is with him, in his arms or in his docks, and that’s bitterly hard to ignore -

- but here, with Jazz so close, that’s not necessarily true at all, and it’s the torturer’s temper, not the strength in Soundwave’s frame, that will keep Ratbat safe.

He untucks the edge of the blanket carefully, and Ratbat skitters out, stretching and wiggling first one grasper, then the next, then each thin wing, before scampering forwards to perch on Soundwave’s knee and chitter up at Jazz.

The torturer offers a few fingers, and Ratbat carefully clamps down with his teeth. Soundwave reaches forward hastily, to pull him back before Jazz can get upset, can assume it’s a bite and react with a swat - it wouldn’t be the first time a mech has reacted violently to some imagined slight on the part of his youngest - but Jazz glances up with nothing like anger in his field, and Soundwave lets his hands falter.

Ratbat is perceptive, however, for all his youth. The symbiont lets out a soft warble as he releases Jazz’s fingers, rocks back, and churrs worriedly up at his carrier - but Jazz is reassuring him even before Soundwave has to think of an explanation for his reaction, fingers scratching at the seams of Ratbat’s wings until the symbiont is almost pressed flat to Soundwave’s knee.

“It’s alright, little mech - Soundwave’s just worried about you. But you and me, we’re friends, right? I’m not going to hurt you, you know that.”

He’s speaking to Ratbat, and Ratbat babbles approvingly - but it’s easy for the carrier to tell who the words are really meant for. Jazz has somehow convinced Ratbat that he’s safe, that they’ve been… rescued by friendlies, perhaps, or somehow saved by the Autobots. Somehow convinced - if they’re in contact, he’d have had to have convinced Ravage and Laserbeak and the twins to play along. The twins aren’t too much older than Ratbat - whatever story had worked on him may have tricked them as well - but Ravage and Laserbeak are older, canny and mistrusting. There’s no way simple lies would have fooled them - but threats, intimidation, promises that their younger siblings would be safe if they behaved, might at least get them to play along.

He needs to talk to Ravage. The older mech is cunning and vicious and smart - he needs that dagger-sharp focus at his side, her keen attention to detail and the savage intent that guides her…

On his knee, Ratbat presses up into Jazz’s fingers, and the torturer lets him up, switching to scratch at his chin instead. Soundwave knows from experience that the spot is wonderfully sensitive, and Ratbat usually loves any sort of attention - but instead, the symbiont lets out a shrill chirp of irritation and flaps a wing at Jazz until the larger mech pulls back.

“Alright, alright, what do you… You want this back?” Jazz pulls something from his subspace with a casual flick of his fingers, a waft of purple and shine that it takes Soundwave a moment to recognize as an extraordinarily fine bit of mesh.

It drifts down towards Ratbat, who dives at it with a squeal that almost ends in him toppling off of Soundwave’s knees entirely - the carrier scrambles forwards to catch him before Jazz can attempt the same. Jazz… he’ll let the other mech touch Ratbat, if he doesn’t hurt him, if that’s what will keep the dangerous mech happy. He doesn’t want to have to let him hold the symbiont - doesn’t want to even think about Jazz’s fingers curling over Ratbat’s chassis and… He shoves the thoughts back and forces his attention onto Ratbat and his prize - even without the bond, he can feel his cassette’s humming excitement, and the little thrill of pride that Ratbat always gets when he has something to show his cohort.

The piece of mesh wrapped around Ratbat’s wingpaw is exactly the sort of thing that the symbiont loves - Soundwave has spent more than enough time digging around in piles of scrap for a particularly shiny shard to offer the little mech, and bright colors and soft meshes are both the sort of thing that appeals to him greatly. Still, this looks like a bit of something expensive - and Soundwave glances uneasily up at Jazz at the thought. It wouldn’t be the first time that Ratbat’s gotten in trouble for unintentionally damaging something that’s caught his attention.

Jazz is still gazing down at Ratbat with patient amusement. He catches Soundwave’s uneasy optics as he glances up, however, and the carrier only relaxes when he hears the calm, laughing tone in the torturer’s voice.

“It’s okay, mech, he didn’t tear anything too important apart to get that. We’ve got a couple of mechs keeping their optics on your little guys for you. One of them - First Aid, he’s a sweetheart - went to ask our own resident carrier for advice, and apparently found out that at Ratbat’s age, cassettes like to make little nests to sleep in… So he and another of their caretakers went around the base and collected a whole storage cube worth of blanket scraps and little bits of mesh for him. Your little guy dug that out and insisted on bringing it… it’s a pretty bit of sparkle, I guess.”

"Mesh: is pretty," Soundwave agrees, returning his gaze to the small frame peeping up at him. "Ratbat: is very fortunate, to have found it."

Ratbat churbles his agreement with the carrier's words - and, struggling free of the little bit of fabric tangled around his audial, thrusts the glittering violet strip up towards Soundwave with a firm churr.

It takes a moment to catch on to what the symbiont wants. Soundwave reaches out, lightly lifting the thin mesh, letting it slip over his fingers to drift back down and settle over Ratbat's helm. "Mesh: is Ratbat's. Ratbat: should keep it. Soundwave: does not need mesh; does not intend to make nest..."

Ratbat lets out a more irritated churrup, balling the fabric up in his wingpaws and this time flinging it up at Soundwave. It's a good toss - the fabric manages to catch his antenna, unfolding to drape down the side of his helm with a gentle flutter.

Jazz laughs again at that. The sound is free and teasing as the torturer’s fingers flicker up to the bit of purple dangling at the edge of Soundwave’s vision, and the carrier flinches back despite his best efforts, uncomfortable with the closeness - but instead of tugging it loose, Jazz flips it over his antenna again, tucking it a little more firmly in place. He leans in a little closer, ducking his helm so he’s… not at Ratbat’s level, but closer, and whispers in a conspiratorial tone,

“I think he looks pretty in it, don’t you?”

Ratbat practically bubbles over with excitement, optics bright with delight as he wriggles his graspers. The burbling sound he makes is so purely happy that Soundwave wants to sob with relief, wants to kiss Jazz’s pedes for drawing it out - it’s the sort of earnest joy he’d never expected to hear again.

Soundwave can’t resist - despite a muffled squeak of protest, he scoops Ratbat into his palm. In spite of the symbiont’s squirming resistance, he doesn’t have any real issue - Ratbat is wiggly, but the carrier has decades of experience corralling wiggly symbionts - and the little flier eventually gives up and simply scootches around until he’s found a spot he likes, nestled in one of Soundwave’s hands held loosely against his chassis. His fingers are spread apart just wide enough that Ratbat’s graspers can fall through and kick at the air - which Ratbat finds endless amusement in - and rest his chin on the flat tip of the carrier’s middle finger, wings loosely held at his sides.

Jazz reaches out, but all he does is gently scratch the symbiont’s back, and Ratbat coos at the touch before twisting his helm to nip at a finger again.

“Hey!” Jazz’s voice is soft and amused, so Soundwave tries not to tense at the exclamation, and Jazz pulls his fingers forwards to wiggle in front of Ratbat’s helm. “You’re gonna bite me, huh? Gotta catch me, first…”

Ratbat wriggles up a little, suddenly intent on this new game. Despite his youth, he’s still a flier-symbiont, with the intense focus, keen optics, excellent tracking and peerless vision that that implies - and there’s very few things he finds more interesting than getting to hunt. He makes a little, abortive lunge, and Jazz’s fingers dart away, always within range, but too quick to catch. A more serious attempt has him nearly toppling out of Soundwave’s palm, and, with a considering look at Jazz - who seems just as focused as the symbiont - the carrier carefully lowers Ratbat to the mattress.

The flat, gummy surface turns out to be ideal for the pair’s game - Ratbat is light enough not to sink into the soft material, but it offers excellent traction for his graspers, and Jazz seems to find it amusing to occasionally drum vibrations to the mechling and watch as his vibrational sensors - carefully honed to detect air currents - light up and his focus sharpens.

Ratbat does well - he’s very clever, twisting and turning to track the ever-elusive fingertips - but Jazz is fast, always one step ahead or fluttering just out of reach. Unlike Rumble or Frenzy, however, Ratbat finds his enjoyment in the chase, and the fact that he can’t catch Jazz only makes him more enthusiastic, not frustrated. Jazz seems to realize that - he doesn’t offer the game to Ratbat, instead making the hunt more challenging as the symbiont adjusts to his techniques, fingers shifting faster, pulling away further until Ratbat has to really lunge for each new attempt.

Ratbat seems almost as surprised as Jazz when he finally manages to catch hold.

It’s a proper bite, too - Ratbat’s somehow squeezed the entire tip of one of Jazz’s fingers between his teeth, mouth stretched to it’s limits. Jazz is very still - he had frozen almost the moment Ratbat latched on, which is fortunate, because the tiny mech’s jaws aren’t designed to hold strong prey, and the thought of calming and repairing a broken-mouthed Ratbat while Jazz watches is unnerving at best. The symbiont blinks up at the torturer, easily fifty times his size - the torturer blinks down at the symbiont.

Ratbat growls.

The sound is absolutely nonthreatening. It’s muffled around the finger, and it’s obviously an honest attempt at menacing by the symbiont, but all Soundwave wants to do is pick the little flier up and croon. He glances up at Jazz, who’s got a bemused grin on his lips - and the torturer meets his optics with a flicker of amused mischief for a moment before bending down to offer an answering, and much more intimidating, growl in reply.

Ratbat’s plating puffs up at the challenge, and his tiny fans rev as he growls again, lending what might charitably be called a baseline to the sound. Jazz laughs at that, optics bright, and his other hand finally flicks out to scratch at Ratbat’s wingjoints.

“Good job, little guy… didn’t think you’d be able to catch me! Mind giving me my finger back, though?” Ratbat lets out a little snarl, and Jazz laughs again. His free hand twists in the air, tugging… a tiny bag?... from his subspace before jangling it in front of Ratbat.

“I’ll trade you…” The offer - a mystery bag! - catches Ratbat’s attention eagerly, bright optics tracking the way it jumps back and forth as Jazz bounces it. The symbiont weighs his options - after so much work, he’s feeling possessive of his prize, a whole finger!, but eventually curiosity wins out, and Jazz carefully pulls his fingertip back as tiny teeth release it.

He tosses the bag to Ratbat, who pounces - only to look up at the larger mech moments later, betrayal written in his optics as he carefully examines the knot holding the bag closed. His wingpaws are too unwieldy to untie it, his graspers not dextrous enough, and Jazz grins as he reaches down to help with the tie.

The knot’s dealt with easily, and Jazz carefully tips some of the contents out onto his hand - tiny, sparkling pink shards that make Ratbat’s whole frame perk up with excited recognition.

Crystallized energon… the stuff is easily the symbiont’s favorite fuel. It’s ideal for his smaller frame and tanks - even with a relatively low energon use, Ratbat and Laserbeak still tend to burn through all but the highest grades of liquid energon too quickly. They simply can’t store enough to remain efficient, especially with damage to repair…

And the super-concentrated crystals are very sweet.

They’re almost impossible to get ahold of, however. It takes a lot of energon to refine them, and of better quality than Soundwave can usually get ahold of - and then, of course, there’s the matter of finding a mech who can actually make them, and working out a deal. He’s only been able to get his hands on the sweet treats a few times during the war, when the cassettes were at their lowest and he needed something, anything, to brighten their spirits and convince them to fuel, or when the Decepticons had won a particularly major victory…

Jazz has a whole pouch of them, but then, Jazz is an officer. Still, the fact that he’s being so generous with Ratbat… it’s encouraging, enough to make Soundwave hope that the affection he’s showing the symbionts, though inexplicable, is genuine.

Ratbat doesn’t seem to share his concerns, or his curiosity, however. The symbiont eagerly stretches towards the crystalline energon, wingpaws grasping up towards the treats with a burble of excited squeaking.

Jazz grins and offers him one. Ratbat’s wings flare wide as he takes it, turning it over and over before deciding where to start in on it - the tiny crunch of sharp teeth follows as he nibbles it into bits small enough to fit down his intake. Jazz’s hand lowers, and Soundwave watches with warm contentment as Ratbat selects another piece, making equally short work of it before moving on to a third. It feels… good, to watch his symbionts eat. Even with the Decepticons, they often went hungry, sharing a single ration cube between all six - five - symbionts; when rations were cut, all too often Soundwave wound up splitting his own ration with them. It feels good watching Ratbat enjoying a meal, a real, filling meal, for once, and having his own tank full of good energon, and Soundwave can only hope that the rest of the cassettes are being fed as well.

Ratbat finishes off the third piece, and seems to hesitate picking out a fourth. He shuffles the ones in Jazz’s hand around, then makes an awkward leap to the bag, one wing holding it open while he digs. The piece he finally chooses is large, too large for the symbiont, but he holds it proudly up with a squeak of delight, and scrambles across the table to Soundwave before offering it to him.

Soundwave… isn’t sure what to do. Ratbat seems insistent, chirping up at him with bright optics, and he knows that the little symbiont is trying to share, offering the shard to him - but how to react to that? Jazz has already told him that he’s not to eat unless it’s the torturer feeding him, and he has no way of knowing if the other mech will be upset if he eats the pricey treat anyways… but Ratbat’s looking up at him, cross that his gift hasn’t been accepted… He glances up, seeking out Jazz’s gaze for direction, for some kind of guidance -

Jazz is smiling approvingly. He reaches out, lifting the little symbiont up - and holding him out, until Ratbat can bang the chunk of crystal against the smooth metal of his carrier’s lips in annoyance.

“You can eat it, this once, Soundwave. Far be it from me to deny such an affectionate little one - and after all, he’s in my hands, isn’t he?”

There’s a teasing lilt to his tone, and Soundwave hesitantly smiles back at the joke as he opens his lips a little and lets the crystal slip inside, allowing his gratitude to teek his field. It’s a tiny shard compared to him, barely a nibble, but his tanks are already full, and so he simply enjoys the rush of flavor as Ratbat is lowered back to the berth to hunt down another bit for himself.

The sweetness is almost gone by the time Ratbat finishes, two more crystals consumed. It’s a lot of energon - more crystal than he’s ever had at one sitting before, easily - and the symbiont seems uncertain of what to do next: there’s more crystals, and he’s clearly considering them, but he’s got no room left to eat them. It’s not a situation that the young flier has dealt with, and Soundwave watches with amusement as he weighs his options, comes to a decision - and flops over on his side.

Jazz lets out a little noise of concern, but Soundwave knows better, reaching out to prod the symbiont upright. “Ratbat: is very dramatic.”

Ratbat whimpers needly, a single wingpaw reaching towards Soundwave before flopping back to the ground melodramatically, and Soundwave vents an annoyed huff.

“Ratbat: is not unwell; can carry himself. Soundwave: will not fall for this.”

That gets him a shrill whistle of annoyance, and the symbiont scrambles up on his graspers, righting himself with a flap of his wings. He lets out another whistle, even more piercing than the last, as he scales Soundwave’s lap, settles himself down, and begins tapping at the carrier’s dockscreen.

It’s a clear signal - Ratbat wants to dock. Young as he is, he needs time to process out the first of the energon in his fuel - something that Soundwave’s systems are far better equipped to support. And he’s spent the last hour playing hunting games and chasing fingers - his exhaustion is understandable.

Soundwave queues up the first of his docking protocols, readies himself to broadcast almost automatically, the familiar plea so instinctively reacted to that he barely has to think about the process at all - and then he forces himself to stop. He’s still uncertain - Jazz has been fair to him, has been positively kind to Ratbat, but there’s no seeming rhyme or reason for it - and Soundwave doesn’t want to risk agitating the torturer by taking away one of his - and it burns, to think of Ratbat, of his own symbionts, like this - toys.

Ratbat makes another pleading squeak, and taps again, but Soundwave just pushes him back a bit, hoping that the symbiont will understand the clear message -

But he clearly doesn’t. Ratbat lets out another soft mewl, optics bright and pleading and confused as he stares up at his carrier and scrabbles again at the edge of his dock. Soundwave wants to open it, to let the little symbiont snuggle up safe inside him… but Jazz is so close, and there’s no way of telling how the torturer will react to such an action, or if he’ll be angered.

Still, with Ratbat getting progressively louder, it’s not long before Jazz notices his agitation, his blue optics fixing on Ratbat with laser-like focus before softening a little at the symbiont’s needy whimpers.

“What does he want, Soundwave?”

Jazz flicks his fingers out to scratch at the thin metal between Ratbat’s ears, and one flicks appreciatively, but this time, Ratbat isn’t distracted. Soundwave lowers a hand down to stroke the little flier’s back, and Ratbat gives another uncertain chirp - he’s obviously not sure why his carrier hasn’t given in to his requests, yet, why he’s not being allowed to dock, and it’s easy to tell that he’s well on his way to being seriously upset.

“Ratbat: ...wishes to dock.” Soundwave keeps his voice even and ambivilent, a careful optic on Jazz waiting for a reaction. “Ratbat: is young, easily tired; wishes to rest. Symbionts: typically spend several hours a day in additional recharge.”

“Ah.” Jazz looks considering. “So why aren’t you letting him? He looks about ready to topple over…”

“Jazz: will permit Soundwave to dock cassettes?” Soundwave can’t quite keep the surprise out of his field. A docked cassette is almost impossible to remove from their carrier without that carrier’s assistance - or the application of a substantial amount of force. It’s surprising that Jazz would let him, would even consider it - but then, the torturer would still have four ideal hostages, if Soundwave tried to refuse him…

Jazz’s next words are even more surprising. “Would it make him happy? Then let him dock, Soundwave - I told you I’d give you two time together, and if this is what that means to him, I’ll allow it.”

Soundwave hesitates for a moment longer. If Jazz chooses to change his mind… it’ll be easier on Ratbat if he’s not first offered false hope, but Jazz seems to really mean his words, and after that moment, Soundwave lets his frame relax a little, tension that he didn’t even realize had been building melting away.

Docking is a deceptively complex process, for a carrier, but the steps are so familiar that he falls into them like an old song. The ultrasonic signal he broadcasts has Ratbat perking up in relieved excitement, frame humming as the sound triggers his own docking protocols. His entire frame transforms, wonderfully, blessedly smoothly, flipping into the air as Soundwave’s docks open - and it’s only moments before he’s closing them again, pneumatics hissing.

With Ratbat safely inside, he lets himself relax a little more, as automatic systems take over - slender graspers shift the cassette to the rearmost dock, cables clamping into place as auxiliary systems take over life support and begin seeking areas in need of repair. His own internal systems are incapable of the sort of major, intensive surgeries that Ratbat’s received - but they’re ideal for treating microabrasions, minor surface damages, and the sort of very fine internal wear that is so critical for cassettes, and nanites, fueled and responsive for the first time in months, flood eagerly to begin the maintenance that Ratbat clearly needs, updates popping into the carrier’s HUD as new areas for repairs are found.

As the last cables settle into place, Soundwave cycles up a debugger. The other cassettes are old enough to be responsible for schedualing their own debuggings, but Ratbat’s young enough that he makes mistakes fairly often - the sort of small, insignificant errors that slow a mech’s processing and, if ignored, can herald a crash or major glitch. The program takes a second to boot, but when it loads, Ratbat’s firewalls cave away obediently, giving his carrier full access to his systems and datafiles.

It feels so good to have Ratbat dock - it feels amazing to have that small, bright spark pressed close to his own, to feel the easy way the symbiont’s frame, undamaged, slots into him. There’s a brief, bright flare of true contact - Ratbat’s mind extending to brush against his own, not in the tight, singing connection of the bond, but in a more physical, visceral form, the electric touch of a cabled connection - but that flickers too quickly for any sort of real conversation, dimming with Ratbat’s exhaustion and leaving only coding-impulse and vague flickers of memoryfiles. Still, the symbiont clings to consciousness - until Soundwave sends him a burst of emotion, of love/safety/loyalty/protection/loving you, always, that surges down the bond and is reciprocated in a burst of affection even as Ratbat lets himself tumble into a full recharge.

Soundwave sits for a moment, focusing on that affection, so long absent and so deeply missed. By the time he returns his attention to the room, to Jazz, the torturer has shifted - he’s no longer perched on the room’s lone chair. Instead, Jazz is settled besides him on the berth, hand on the carrier’s shoulder, fingertips rubbing the edge of a tense cable.

“He’s alright, in there?” Jazz smiles at Soundwave’s nod. “Can he hear us?”

Soundwave hesitates at the question, nervous curiosity welling up at the thought of what Jazz might intend to say away from the symbiont’s listening audials. Still, he shakes his helm, speaking only after a moment.

“Ratbat: is in recharge. Soundwave: controls audial, optical input while cassettes are docked. Ratbat: cannot see, hear Jazz.”

“That’s good. Thought you might like to talk a bit - might have questions about the rest of your cohort. I’ll answer them, if you want…” Jazz seems far more relaxed then Soundwave would otherwise expect, not at all annoyed - honestly, the carrier had expected some sort of reprimand, for Ratbat’s rudeness if nothing else. But he does want to know how the rest of his symbionts are - desperately so, now that they’re all awake.

“Cohort: are well?” He tries to keep the need out of his voice, but he can’t stop the little edge of nervous tension that bleeds in. “Cohort: are awake, together? Symbionts: Have not caused trouble, been harmed?”

Jazz hums in what teeks like amusement at the question - but he answers. "They’re awake, yes. The twins apparently needed a few more repairs; they haven’t been released from medical yet, but according to Wheeljack, it’s all very minor sensor adjustments, nothing serious.” That’s… more of a relief than anything - mechkin frames tend to be robust, but that makes their internals more cramped to allow for the thicker armor. That the medics are bothering to tinker, when even Soundwave can find sensor repairs on the twins frustrating… it means they’re not shorting his symbionts on repairs, at least. Not if they’re paying the mechkin’s sensors the same careful attention that they so clearly have given to the two flier’s damaged frames...

“Ravage, Laserbeak, and Ratbat are all awake - obviously - and they’re being housed together. There was a little bit of trouble when they were onlined - Ravage apparently managed to chew herself halfway through a medic before First Aid managed to talk her down." Jazz must notice the way Soundwave tenses at, because he raises his hands in a calming gesture before continuing. "Just talk, I promise. Your clade are in the care of the four biggest soft-sparks in the Autobot army - even if I had given them permission to punish your symbionts, they'd never even consider raising a hand to them. They're perfectly safe - and, I have no doubt, being spoiled rotten..."

That's... good to hear. Jazz - what reason would the torturer have to lie to him about how his cassettes are being treated? He would have felt Ravage's pain down the bond if she were truly hurt, even as guttered as it is - months of experience have affirmed that - and Ratbat seems so assured, so comfortable with Jazz's touch...

Still, there's something terrifyingly uncertain about Jazz's plan, about what might be going on in the torturer's mind. Asking... he's been offered answers so far, when he's asked questions - surely this can't be any more risky?

"Query: why? Jazz: has no need to let symbionts be coddled. Soundwave: will obey for safety only; cannot obey more..."

Jazz reaches out to brush his fingers along Soundwave's audial with a low, rolling chuckle that makes the carrier's spark churn uneasily. "It's alright, Soundwave. One of my best friends is a carrier - I suppose you could say I have a soft spot for the little guys. As long as you're good, I see no reason they shouldn't be happy - I'm not just going to shut them in a cell somewhere. That wouldn't be fair to them, and I doubt it would be good for this little guy at all."

Jazz taps lightly at the edge of Soundwave's deck with a single finger. The soft noise is enough to make Ratbat stir - but he settles back down after only a moment, evidently too cozy to bother rousing further.

“So how long does he usually nap, anyways?”

“Ratbat: is still very young. Youngling symbionts: spend one, two hours in recharge, three, four times daily. Ratbat: generally recharges for around one hour. Occasionally: less.” It’s not long - they’ve already been speaking for around ten minutes. Still, the thought of spending an entire hour with a chatty Jazz is unnerving…

“That’s not too bad. I’ve got to leave in around an hour and a half - but he can stay docked until then, alright? No need to wake the little guy up if we don’t have to.” Jazz seems to be considering something, field relaxing a little around them. It actually feels… vaguely comforting, in a bizarre way.

And Jazz is going to give him the time he needs to run Ratbat through a full defrag… Which he can already tell the symbiont needs desperately. “Soundwave: is grateful.”

“You’re welcome.” Jazz gives him a strange little smile, almost soft smile. “How does this sound? Why don’t you lay down with him - I’ve got a datapad to work on, I won’t mind. Lay down, get a little rest yourself, and when he wakes up, let me know, alright?”

The thought of recharging with Jazz in the room makes Soundwave want to stiffen with anxiety - but just getting a chance to rest a little, to focus on the smaller spark nestled up against his own, sounds amazing. He hesitates for only a second before shifting a little, tugging what he can of the blanket over himself until Jazz stands up with a laugh.

“Here.” The blanket lofts over him, covering his whole frame in a single easy toss, and Soundwave curls into it a little more, snuggling in until he’s curled facing the wall. He’s warm, and Ratbat is docked safely away, and Jazz… hasn’t hurt him, yet, and so he lets his focus slip from the mech now leaning against the wall fiddling with a datapad inward, until his whole world is the mutual pulse of two bound sparks and the comfortable surge of data from Ratbat’s cables.

It’s mostly incoherent - the nonsense stuff of sparkling dreams - but it’s the purest comfort he’s had in a while, familiar and uncomplicated and honest, and Soundwave submerges himself in the soft chimes and burbling song and bright colors that make up the feedback of Ratbat’s world. There’s a darkness, pain, right around the edges - but it’s pushed back by the colors, by the music, and there’s no fear of it in Ratbat, just a faint disquiet at the dissonance in the dreaming. It’s a far cry from Laserbeak’s dreams, or Ravage’s - even the twins are old enough to remember brief flashes of agony, twisting pain and the hurt of their carrier’s damaged spark -

He doesn’t want to think about it, pushes back against the intruding thoughts. Not now, when his own upset might so easily transmit to Ratbat even without the bond.

Jazz never stirs, except to flick his fingers across the screen of the datapad, and so Soundwave continues to simply drift until, at last, Ratbat’s dreams begin to flicker and flare with the brighter colors of a mind waking. Soundwave carefully pulls back - it’s not an invasion, to share dreams with his symbionts, but to remain after they awaken is a little rude - and Ratbat is already perking up, rested and just as eager to wriggle back out of his docks as he had been to clamber in.

Soundwave shifts slowly, pulling himself upright carefully so as not to knock into Jazz. The Autobot glances up at the movement, subspacing his datapad with a flick of the wrist before shifting to give Soundwave a little more room to maneuver. Soundwave settles on the edge of the berth besides him, purring deep in his chassis to calm Ratbat as the symbiont chirps and whistles his annoyance down the cables - and, at least once, manages to let out an audible peep that even Jazz seems to have heard, despite not currently having a mouth...

“Little guy finally wants out?” Jazz’s voice is a little… teasing, maybe?... as he gestures to Soundwave’s chassis. “That’s good - I have to go in a few minutes, so why don’t you let him?”

Soundwave nods absently, distracted for the moment from the full implications of Jazz’s sentence by Ratbat’s wiggling. It’s uncomfortable, docking in front of such a dangerous mech - ordinarily, he wouldn’t even dock in front of another Decepticon, let alone an Autobot, let alone - Primus - Jazz - but the torturer doesn’t seem inclined to look away, let alone leave the room so that he can have some privacy, and Soundwave isn’t eager to bring it up. Instead, he triggers the undocking process - cables retract in neat inverse, clamps loosen, and after a few moments of poking and prodding, Ratbat has transformed and is sticking his head out of the dock, optics brilliant. He yurbles excitedly at the sight of Jazz, and begins to worm his way out, wingpaws flexing to pull him up as his graspers find what traction they can on the inside of Soundwave’s frame. Jazz keeps a respectful distance, which is a relief - Soundwave’s not sure what he would do if the torturer tried to lift his cassette of of his dock.

Instead, Ratbat wriggles his way out, balancing carefully on the edge of the open door before overbalancing and toppling comically into Soundwave’s lap.

“Hey, little mech… Good to see you’re up and about. You feeling alright?” Jazz’s voice is teasing, and Ratbat squeaks half-drowsily as he blinks up - and upside-down - at the larger mech.

“Ratbat: rested well. Defragmentation: was successful, productive. Ratbat: is in good repair.” Jazz seems pleased by the information.

“You defragged him while he was in there? That seems useful…”

“Docking: offers opportunity for code repairs, basic maintenance. Ratbat: too young to maintain own code. Carrier assistance: beneficial. Siblings: can manage major tasks, with effort…” And the thought of leaving his cohort with the duties, the care, that should be his responsibility is more than a little upsetting - caring for a youngling cassette is no small challenge. But… they’re brave, and clever, and bold, and they care for their own - he’s never once doubted their love or their loyalty to Ratbat.

“I’ll try to make sure you get the chance to dock him fairly regularly, then. But for now... I have some business that I need to attend to. Soundwave, say goodbye to Ratbat, please. I’ll bring him back to his siblings before I leave.”

What? No, he can’t - the thought shakes Soundwave out of his calm, and he feels a tight ball of tension start to grow in his frame. He doesn’t want to leave Ratbat alone again, doesn’t want to give the youngling over to the Autobots, it’s too dangerous -

He doesn’t even realize that he’s pushed himself backwards until Jazz’s visor darkens, and Jazz’s voice grows low with rolling threat.

“Soundwave, you knew I wasn’t going to let you keep him here. Say goodbye, and give him to me. I have somewhere to be.”

He hesitates, still, common sense warring with his instincts - he needs to give Ratbat to Jazz, needs to let the symbiont be taken from him so he’ll be allowed to see him again but he can’t let Ratbat out of his sight - and evidently it takes too long, because Jazz steps forwards, hand outstretched, and he’s grabbing at the tiny flier and no, he won’t let Ratbat get hurt again -

There’s a sickening crack as Jazz slams into the wall, and the whole world seems to slow to a crawl around him as Soundwave watches the black-and-white frame slide to the floor, optics dull and lifeless. In his hands, Ratbat goes absolutely still, a faint, whimpering chirp tumbling out of him before he falls silent.

It takes a moment for thought to break through the sluggish haze. Oh Primus - has he just killed the Autobot TIC? Oh Primus - his whole frame feels too heavy, too stiff to move. What just - oh Primus, what is he going to do?

Jazz is very, very still, but he’s not greyed, not dead - not yet, and Soundwave feels a surging flood of unexpected relief. The torturer - he can’t bring himself to think about what’s going to be done to him for this, what’s going to be done to his symbionts, because there’s no way he’ll be able to keep himself together if he does - and he didn’t mean to, but what if Jazz dies…

No. No - he can’t think about that either, because the thought of Ironhide or one of Jazz’s other supposed friends - Primus, maybe even Prowl or the Prime himself - taking out their rage for the torturer’s death on him is even worse -

His first step towards Jazz ends in a stagger, his whole frame feeling loose and disconnected. His second is a little steadier - he just needs to check, needs to make sure Jazz isn’t going to offline, and then… maybe he can find a comm, maybe the door’s not locked, he can get a medic, maybe Jazz won’t hurt him as badly if somehow he can prove that he didn’t mean it - maybe he won’t hurt Ratbat, maybe he’ll leave the rest of his cohort alone -

The torturer’s visor flares blue, and his helm snaps up, fixing Soundwave with a paralyzing glare - and static surges through the carrier’s system. He manages to drop to his knees before it really hits him, but there’s nothing that he can do to keep his frame from locking up, suddenly wholly outside of his control, as Jazz slowly rises to his pedes.

And then the world around him starts to pitch.

Ratbat chirps franticly, trying to escape the fingers that have locked in place around him, but they're too large for the tiny symbiont to push away. Soundwave tries to release him, but the charge freezing him in place isn’t something he can overcome with willpower or need - and so there’s nothing he can do as he begins to fall towards the trapped symbiont struggling to get to safety.

Terror floods through him - Soundwave knows he’s large enough that, should he land on Ratbat, the littler mechen might easily be smashed beyond all hope of repair - but suddenly there's crushing pressure on his neck, and his fall is halted almost entirely by that painful, unexpected force, his vision almost entirely obscured by a broad white shoulder.

Jazz. The torturer has surged forward, is bracing him upright with one strong forearm across his throat, and even as Soundwave struggles - without success - to find some kind of balance, he can feel his fingers being pried apart, and then little scrambling claws as Ratbat is pulled free -

- and then, with a flick of the arm, he’s tossed effortlessly sideways, slamming into the floor in a burst of pain, still-paralyzed as Jazz straightens.

The torturer ignores him, however. Instead, he’s examining Ratbat, stony-faced - and then, he strides to the berth, lowers the panicking symbiont carefully down… and ruthlessly begins wrapping him in the blanket.

Ratbat does not enjoy it.

The symbiont struggles, ineffectively, but Jazz already has his wings pinned at his side, and it’s not hard for a larger mech to swaddle such a young flier - Laserbeak would be more of a challenge, but even she doesn’t have the nimbleness to escape with her wings already pinned. Soundwave knows he should be afraid, but all he can think about, all he can focus on, is Ratbat, and what Jazz might be planning for an immobilized, helpless symbiont…

But once he’s got Ratbat fully wrapped up - even his optics covered, and Ratbat is shrilly letting them both know how he feels about that - Jazz’s attention turns from the symbiont to his carrier.

“That was a mistake, Soundwave…” There’s a curl of frozen venom to his voice that Soundwave hasn’t heard before - a dangerous, knife-edged tone that makes the carrier want to run, to hide, to get away. “Get on your knees.”

The static and the stiffness dissipate, and Soundwave scrambles up the moment he can move, terrified, now that that lethal laser-focus is on him. He wants to beg, but even speech is beyond him - he’s barely able to concentrate, barely able to think beyond the electric-blue of the torturer’s visor flashing as Jazz circles slowly.

Jazz draws to a stop mere feet away, close enough that Soundwave can hear the whisper of his fans, and meets the carrier’s gaze.

“That was a mistake - and now I’m going to punish you, Soundwave. Do you understand that? This is going to hurt.” A pause. “Understand?”

Soundwave can hardly respond - can barely even hear Jazz through the terror surging through his frame like white-hot fire. Jazz is going to - Jazz is going to kill him, is going to tear him apart, is going to destroy him, is going to hurt Ratbat -

The torturer seems to take his cowering flinch as a yes, seems pleased at the tremors shaking the carrier’s frame.

“You know why, right?” The voice is cold, and it makes Soundwave shudder - as much as he hated it, he wants the purr back, something, anything except that terrifying smoothness devoid of emotion and any sort of mercy, or pity, or even understanding… “You understand why I’m going to hurt you? Because you attacked me, fought me - and I will not tollerate that, Soundwave.”

He’s sorry - Jazz doesn’t care, but he’s sorry, he’s so scared and the torturer won’t accept apologies or pleading or tears… But he has to try, anything is better than just sitting and waiting, any little bit of imagined control must be better than nothing at all...

“Soundwave: is sorry!” The carrier’s voice cracks with static, nearly incomprehensible, and he tries again. “Soundwave: did -”

“Be quiet.”

Soundwave slams his mouth shut, vocalizer stilling with another rush of static. That’s worse - being effortlessly ignored is so much worse than just surrendering to the coming pain.

“I can be generous, Soundwave.” One hand brushes over his antenna in a familiar gesture, but this time, Soundwave knows that pain must be coming, that whatever strange quantity of mercy Jazz had is used up and gone. But… the touch stays light as Jazz forces his helm up to meet the torturer’s optics.

Oh, Primus.

They’re bright with an almost electric blue light, and his smile… it’s pleased, smirking, cruel. There’s no pity at all, nor anger - just a sick look of amusement, like a hunter lining up the shot on a pinned turbofox…

“I can be generous,” the torturer repeats after a moment. “I won’t kill you, Soundwave. I… understand... that you were afraid, and I won’t kill you for that. But this will hurt. I am going to use this -”

With a flicker of his fingers, he unsubspaces a rod, thin and metal and sleek and terrifying -

“- to punish you. I am going to touch it to you - here and here and here -”

The rod flicks across his frame, touching either side of his chest right above his docks before coming to rest just above the glass panel itself -

“- and you are going to hurt. Do you understand, Soundwave?”

The touch, the feeling of that slim metal resting on the edge of his dock - the thought of what sort of damage it might be capable of, because it looks so unassuming that it must be terrifying, makes him freeze with panic, and he wants to beg but if all that will do is anger Jazz more…

“I asked if you understood, Soundwave. Answer me.”

Jazz’s voice is a little darker, deep and poisonous, and Soundwave scrambles to nod his understanding even as he struggles to maintain what composure he has left - he knows he’s shaking, can feel himself sobbing, but it feels so remote, so distant, he feels almost numb…

“Good mech. I will be generous, Soundwave - I’ll make this short. Ten seconds, that’s all - it will be minutes, if you ever strike me again. Remember that.” Jazz pauses for a second, and his optics darken a little. “You may scream, if you wish…”

The rod flicks to his right, to the first spot Jazz had gestured to - and then there’s a clank as it taps against his chassis, and his frame explodes.

It’s agony, everywhere. The touch of the rod is a single point of white-hot fire, of metal that must be, must bemelting, and his whole frame must be running out of him like liquid, his protoform is spasming and dying, because Jazz was lying - there’s no way he can survive this much pain, no way any mech could endure such pain. He wants to die - it hurts so much, too much, and at least death would hurt less, at least he’d be safe from ever feeling this again -

And it ends, just before the point at which he gives in and lets the pain do what it wants to his mind, his frame, his spark. The rod draws back, and everything grows inexorably colder, the whole room feels frozen, like his fuel lines are icing up and his antifreeze is failing, and the pain is dimmed but not gone at all - just frozen like the air churning through his vents.

Contact registers: Jazz - something - is touching him, somewhere, but his frame is too busy processing errors to even register if it hurts or not. It takes a moment to realize that even his optics are fritzed, that the dark blurs rolling across his vision and overwhelming it are just the sparking shadows of resetting sensors.

And then the pain explodes again.

It’s so much worse the second time, frame still limp and weak from the first. It feels like it’s searing across his everything - like his paint is bubbling and cracking, sensors frying, delicate relays misreporting over and over until even the darkness goes red with alerts. His entire frame must be lighting up with the sparks he can feel flying along his struts, bouncing from point to point in a surging charge, and Soundwave surrenders to the pain, lets his control over his frame loosen until the only thing holding him up is that surging power. He's been hurt before - he's seen his own armor torn off of him, been flayed with live wires, been beaten until he was nothing more than failing plating and agony - and this is worse.

Then everything is cold again. For longer, maybe, this time - or it just feels like longer, like someone’s talking to him, like there’s anything at all left of a world outside of pain.

The fire, when it comes again, is different. This time, it’s more delicate, his insides turning to crystal shards and shattering, over and over, until his whole frame is filled up with tiny, razor-edged grains of bright silver scraping him raw. He doesn’t even bother thinking, resisting - why, when this pain will never end, when Jazz has already promised to keep him alive to suffer this forever? And this time, it just goes on and on and on and on and on…

It stops.

It stops, and Soundwave is left, freezing, forever. Until…

Slowly, warmth returns. Warmth, sensation - sensors reset, sensors fail, sensors reset again in a dizzying cycle of blind-sight-blind, until Soundwave realizes that he’s seeing things, that the blur of grey and white above him is the ceiling, not just more of the endless grey of destroyed optics, that the solidness beneath him is the floor, that he’s fallen over, that he can feel enough to move again -

He scrambles upwards, tries to drag his broken frame back to the kneeling position even as he collapses back down. He doesn’t want to anger Jazz - there’s another blow coming, there will always be another blow coming, Jazz is never ever going to stop, and the pain is always worse when the one inflicting it gets angry, and Soundwave doesn’t know how this could get worse but Jazz is Jazz and it can -

But nothing comes. He waits, braces, but nothing happens - and finally, it’s too much, he can’t even get back on his knees, and his hands slip out from under him and he lands, twisted, on his side, chest exposed, unable to fight or rise or defend himself, he can’t even move his arms to shield himself -

But there’s still no more new pain. There’s no chink as the rod presses against his frame again, no burst of fire and heat. Instead, there’s hands - pushing him down, keeping him pinned - two points of aching pressure on his hurting frame, but nothing more. Jazz’s fingers slip down to his chin, press his helm back so he can meet the torturer’s optics - and Soundwave gazes upward into ultramarine, blue so dark that it seems black at the center, and tries not to pull away.

Jazz is saying something, but Soundwave’s audials are still offline. He resets them almost frantically - he needs to know, he needs to hear what Jazz wants, what the torturer is trying to tell him to do, he doesn’t want Jazz to think he’s disobeying, he doesn’t want to be hurt again, he’s so sorry -

Jazz pauses, helm cocking to the side for a moment before his other hand reaches down, and Soundwave can’t help it, he cringes away - but the torturer doesn’t slap him or claw at him. Instead, there’s a pressure, right beneath his antenna - and the whole world bursts into overwhelming sound as his audials reset. He can barely sort them apart - the roar of his own systems churning is almost enough to deafen him again, and there’s some sort of distant, high-pitched sound, and then Jazz’s voice cuts through the din like a knife.

“Can you hear me now, Soundwave?”

The torturer’s voice is muffled, but yes, Soundwave can hear him - he nods frantically, Jazz’s hand still pressed to his cheek blocking some of the gesture. Jazz is unreadable - he doesn’t look pleased, he doesn’t look angry, nothing in his face or field or voice gives away when the next blow will come or where it might land, nothing hints at what might trigger it or if it will just be a random strike…

“Good.” Jazz pulls back - he rises to his feet, and it’s only then that Soundwave realizes that the torturer had knelt beside him.

Jazz moves to the berth, and Soundwave can barely track him - his optics may be functional, but he can’t move his helm without sending enough pain to make his vision flash white shattering through his frame. He’s just… stuck, waiting, until Jazz comes back…

It feels like hours. His chronometer says it’s only been a minute or two - but then, even that might be wrong, might be more static. He can’t tell…

And then another noise splits itself out of the teeming loudness as Jazz returns to his side - with a struggling, frantic Ratbat in his hands, peeping desperately as he fights the torturers hold.

Oh - oh Primus, no, Jazz can’t mean to - there can’t be a mech cruel enough - no, please -

Ratbat’s optics, tiny flares of brilliant red, are terrified, and Soundwave just wants to comfort the symbiont, tell him he’ll be safe, that his carrier will protect him - but he’s useless, worthless, Jazz is the one with all the power now and he’s going to hurt Ratbat.

And Ratbat’s still fighting. No - he shouldn’t fight - he needs to let Jazz get what he wants, let the torturer hurt him and lay still and pretend it doesn’t, Ratbat needs to submit because that’s the only thing that might make Jazz stop in time, might keep Ratbat alive. Soundwave makes another desperate, abortive attempt to rise - he needs to distract the torturer, he needs to draw Jazz’s attention, and terror floods through him like a wave. Need to not get hurt again clashes with need to protect symbiont - but even through the fear, there can only ever be one winner in that clash. He needs to keep Ratbat safe -

Jazz is saying something, and there’s a hand pinning him down - a hand, and then a surge of static, painless but nauseating, that locks up his frame again so he can’t move. Jazz is just going to make him watch -

Ratbat is pinned in by Jazz’s fingers, desperately trying to break free of the hand holding him. A single wing, thin, delicate - and the word whispers like poison against his mind - sneaks free, flapping uselessly as Ratbat flips onto his back, graspers kicking at the metal above him, tiny claws scraping without effect at the much sturdier plating.

Jazz says something else, and then he’s looking up at Soundwave, still unreadable, and the carrier doesn’t even know what he’s being asked - if he’s being asked anything at all.

“I’m not going to harm him for your mistakes, Soundwave. Tell him you’re alright - I’m going to take him back to his siblings. Say goodbye.”

Say goodbye? If Ratbat isn’t going to be hurt… relief wars with mistrust, that terrible, terrible fear at the thought of being unable to see - unable to reach, unable to protect, his cohort, but if Jazz will spare the tiny symbiont, won’t punish him for the carrier’s mistakes…

Ratbat has managed to flip again, on his side now, gnawing viciously at the base of one of Jazz’s fingers with tiny, razor-sharp teeth. It’s doing absolutely nothing - Jazz seems not to have even noticed - but he needs to tell Ratbat to be good, tell the tiny symbiont that he’s alive and alright and not worth worrying over, not worth fighting for… he needs to tell Ratbat that he’s loved.

The noise that bursts from his lips instead is static, pathetic and useless.

Ratbat shrieks. His struggles increase tenfold - now both wings are beating the air, straining until the thin metal of his joints must be aching, thrashing without effect against nothing at all; his teeth are ripping at metal, pulling away thin curls of plate as they abrade the paint; his graspers, now blocked from view by his struggles, are easy to hear scraping and scrabbling at Jazz’s fingertips. Jazz looks down at the fighting frame in his palm, and for a moment, all Soundwave can see, all he can imagine, is Jazz deciding to apply the tiniest bit of force and squeeze -

But he doesn’t. Instead, the torturer lifts Ratbat, croons something inaudible, as if trying to calm the symbiont himself, and kneels besides Soundwave, shifting Ratbat in his hands as he does until the little flier is once more upright and fully surrounded by Jazz’s hands.

“Try again, Soundwave.” There’s no kindness in his voice, but no hostility either. “Not so much to ask, right? Just say goodbye…”

Soundwave resets his vocalizer, then again, and then tries to speak. It hurts - his vocalizer feels like raw metal and glass - but this time, the words are, at least, understandable.

“Ratbat: is loved.” It’s so hard to figure out what to say, but that bit’s obvious - that bit’s easy. “Symbionts - brothers, sisters: loved. Ratbat: will behave; tell siblings to behave. Please: stay safe. Soundwave: loves you.” That’s all he can choke out before his vocalizer goes to static again, but that’s okay - it’s everything important.

Ratbat starts chirping again, distressed, when Jazz rises - he struggles, but hesitantly, obviously torn between his own desire to break free and go to his carrier and the urge to listen to Soundwave’s words. His chirps only increase in pitch and frequency as Jazz steps back.

“Good mech. We’re done for tonight, Soundwave. When you’ve got the strength back, get back on the bed and try to sleep - you’ll need the rest.”

The thought of what he might need it for makes Soundwave’s spark freeze, but he nods as best he can, craning his neck against the static numbing his frame so he can watch as Jazz leaves, Ratbat in hand still chirping in panic. It’s only when Jazz is gone, door shut behind him, that he lets his helm fall back, giving in to the pain.

Everything still hurts. It’s… not as bad as when Jazz was torturing him, but it’s not just an ache, either - every time he moves, it feels like new bursts of pain surge through him. Everything hurts, cables, protoform, sensors, and he doesn’t want to move, can’t move even as the static holding him still dissipates, whatever hold Jazz has over his frame finally releasing.

He needs to get up on the berth. That’s the thought that fixes in Soundwave’s mind - Jazz told him to get up on the berth. He needs to - he needs to do it, that’s what Jazz wants, and Jazz is going to come back, and he needs to please Jazz, he needs to be obedient enough that Jazz doesn’t hurt him again, or at least, not as badly.

Even without the static numbing him, the bed feels a forever away.

Soundwave isn’t willing to give up, though. Fear drives him on as he struggles to push himself upright, and when that fails, to flip himself over and crawl across the floor, chassis scraping the ground, until he can lean against the berth and drag himself up onto it.

It takes a moment to get oriented, twist around until he can actually lie on the silicone mattress, the insulating mesh half trapped under him as he lets his frame sink into the soft material. It feels… unbelievably good, good like he hadn’t expected to feel ever again, as pressure and weight is taken off of over-strained tensors and taut cables. His frame still hurts - but there’s pleasure, too, now, relief mixing with pain to create a new sensation that he’s not entirely sure how to process. He’s too exhausted to think about it, much.

Slowly, cautiously, Soundwave begins to run system checks, every working sensor straining to hear if Jazz returns in the meanwhile. It takes over an hour - some of them, he runs twice, just because the results are so hard to believe - but in the end, there’s no doubt…

He’s not damaged. Not at all - none of the pain he’s feeling, none of the agony he felt, did more than leave scorch marks on his plating. His vocalizer is nearly shot - dimly, he recognizes the fact that he must have been screaming, but he shoves the thought from his processors - and his entire frame is strained and weak, but… whatever Jazz did to him, he’s intact, and not beyond what autorepair can manage.

Even his docks. Even his docks - and when the rod had pressed to his chest and fired, he had thought that Jazz intended to destroy them, take away his ability to dock his symbionts, break him utterly as a carrier, but Jazz hadn’t.

Yet. That’s the thought that follows him into… not recharge; Soundwave doesn’t recharge at all during the night. Instead, he spends it strung wire-tight, half-expecting a burst of pain from Ratbat through the bond, unable to do anything except wait for the sound of Jazz’s footsteps or a beep at the door, and whatever torture the returning mech might bring.

Chapter Text

Jazz lets out a low hum as he comes out of recharge.

Mirage’s arms are smooth and solid around him, and he curls into the familiar hold with a purr as the spy shifts, pulling the other mech in a little closer when Mirage starts to pull away. Behind him, the delicate tenor of Mirage’s laugh rumbles against his frame.

“So tired, Jazz? It’s time for us to get up - I have a meeting with Prowl in an hour, and you have a pet to play with…”

Jazz vents in melodramatic annoyance as he comes fully online.

“Oh come on, ‘Raj. Prowl can wait… he and Hound can sit outside my door and bemoan the fact that I’ve stolen you away. Commiserate.”

“Stolen me away?” There’s a teasing purr to Mirage’s voice. “Have you, my commander?”

“You crawled into my berth last night. That means I won.” Jazz tucks his helm a little more snugly into Mirage’s chest - the blue mech is preciselythe same temperature as the rest of the room, mods carefully adjusting his plate temperature to make him invisible to infrared as well as visible light. Still, that means that he feels pleasantly cool against Jazz’s plating - the room isn’t that warm. “Should have thought of that before you came poking around, ‘Raj. Maybe this is your punishment for being sneaky with me…”

Mirage cups his cheek in a single warm palm, laughing again. “I don’t know why we ever let you spend the night alone, Jazz. Blue, ‘Bee and I should take rotations - you’re so much more fun when you’ve gotten a good night of recharge…”

“Mmm… Ratchet would love that, I bet.” The red-and-white bot has proposed it several times, in fact, in various permutations - Jazz would consider it, honestly, but at this point it would mean letting the medic win. “I’m fine, ‘Raj. You don’t need to spend so much time worrying about me.”

“Never said you weren’t, Jazz - but you’re a good deal funnier when you get this cuddly. Would you like to just detach my arm? I think I have some painkill chips, and I know you have graphene - pop it off, patch up the join, and when you get bored of snuggling you can use it to terrorize your carrier?” His voice is the same smooth, warm tone as before when he speaks - and it takes a moment for Jazz to catch on. When he does, though, the comfortable, cozy mood evaporates like solvent on plate.

“Slagger.” Jazz whaps the spy on the helm as he disentangles himself from the other mech’s arm - which he had, in fact, been tightly holding onto- and pushes himself upright. He settles on the edge of the berth, Mirage shaking with laughter as he lounges behind him, and gives a teasing glare.

“You love me for it, Commander…”

“Shut up.” Jazz slips to his pedes, the comfortable tingle of his floor underpede clearing his processor further as he walks over to the energon he’s stashed in a corner. It’s nice, to be able to wake slowly - here, in his secured room, with a trusted teammate, is really the only chance he ever gets. Everywhere else, it’s battle-protocols, weapons then tracking then targeting then threat assessment then identification - which, while easily the superior boot protocol, means that every awakening is to hissing tension and a mad scramble to place faces, names, and factions.

Of course, nothing quite makes up for that tension like finishing booting to a couple of very surprised Decepticon corpses still-smoking, weapons in hand.

By the time he returns to the berth with two cubes in hand, Mirage has sat up too - there’s the faint brush of static as the other mech scans the cube, and Jazz does as well, even though he knows it should be clean. Mirage takes a deep draught of it when he’s confirmed its safety, and the pair settle side-by-side on the berth’s edge.

“So, what’s the plan for today?”

Jazz licks a drop of energon off his lips as he considers. “You… go make some friends. The newbies have had almost two weeks to get settled, now - stir the slag a little, see what rises. You know what I like.”

“Of course. Command structures, who’s popular, who’s close to command. It shouldn’t be too hard - by this point, most of them probably know who I am. Just a friendly Ops mech asking around for my boss… they’ll tell us what we want, if they don’t think we’re digging.”

“Be careful about that.” Jazz lowers his cube. “Elom never had an embedded Ops division - there’s no saying that these mechs are going to be as trusting as our locals. Remember, our guys know that if it’s not treason, it’s cool - these mechs have no reason to think that every word you hear isn’t from your audial to Prowl’s ear.”

“Hmph.” Mirage vents his annoyance. “Fair. Maybe I’ll get… not Ironhide, if we’re keeping him out of this. One of the twins? Someone to vouch me in. You know how frontliners get - one of them starts talking, suddenly none of them can keep quiet.”

“Tracks. The twins are already in on this deep enough - don’t want them slipping up. Although I might set them on this, if we don’t turn up any leads… They have a certain subtlety to them that I can appreciate, and they’ll be discrete.” Jazz grins at that - for all their aggression, the twins can be a valuable weapon in the hands of SpecOps, and it’s only their need for combat as an outlet that’s prevented him from stealing them away from Ironhide. They are discrete - and if Jazz asks nicely, the mechs he sets them after get found, relatively intact and with a firm desire to tell him everything - everything - he wants to know.

After all, frontliners love nothing more than topping each other - and the twins have an awful lot of stories to top, dangerous stories of the sort that never get told while an officer’s listening.

“Tracks sounds good. I’ll try to keep things quiet - I’ll let it slip that I’m asking around for Prowl, let that circulate a bit and see if it opens them up, if mechs aren’t talking. They’ll understand tacticians, even if they don’t appreciate SpecOps.”

“Good enough.” Jazz nods appreciatively. “They’ll be running scared - someone will slip up. It’s not like it’s a secret we found him - but I’ve kept quiet the fact that we’re still looking, and no one outside of need-to-know’s been informed of his situation beyond that we captured him at Elom. Hopefully, the mechs who know better will think we’re content with Starweave’s death and get lazy, or think we’re looking and get stupid..”

“Hmph. Fair enough.” Mirage sips again at his cube, sloshing the glowing fluid in a loose circle for a moment. “So, what are you going to do with the day?”

“Oh, I’ll keep busy…” When Mirage shoots him an annoyed glance, Jazz laughs. “Play with my new pet, what else? I’ve got a few things to work on today - poor mech’s only managed to keep down a half-ration of medgrade since coming online, and I promised that if he’s good I’ll let him see one of his little guys. I’m just going to have a nice relaxing day with him - nothing too exciting.”

“He’ll enjoy that, I think - and honestly, I agree you’re better off not pushing him too hard right now. How does this sound - once you’re done fueling him, come find me? We can check in on the symbionts together - I told First Aid I’d visit sometime today - and I can report what I’ve found while you pick up Ratbat.” Mirage’s words are… entirely reasonable. It’s not fair to the blue mech, the way Jazz feels his tension rising - but then, the fact that he shouldn’t assume that Mirage is plotting doesn’t mean that the spy isn’t.

“Keeping an optic on me, ‘Raj?” The saboteur keeps his voice forcibly casual, and Mirage winces - minutely, but it’s there.

“...You know I’m going to, Jazz.”

“‘M fine, ‘Raj…” Jazz vents a little, letting understanding fill his field to match the irritation - it shouldn’t bother him this much, but being watched makes his hackles rise like nothing else, the gear-grinding feeling of not being trusted - the other reason he continues to resist the idea of more regular company. It’s nice, waking up curled into the side of a trusted friend - but it’s not worth feeling like he’s not worthy of trust. “You don’t have to sneak around. I’ll be a good little mech - Primus knows I wouldn’t let any of you out of optic range if you were doing psych work like this.”

“If I send Bumblebee up tonight, then, or Bluestreak? I have to see who’s going to be available - I’ll try to work out a schedule in advance. I… as your second, I would prefer you not spend nights alone until you’ve settled this, one way or another. As your friend… I would prefer not to have to go to Ratchet or Prime.”

And just like that, any choice in the matter he might have had is gone, evaporated like solvent in the glaring knowledge that Mirage is right - and that Ratchet knows it, and Prime, and he’s well and cornered now. It burns, embarrassing, weakness... but at the same time, it feels calming. He trusts them, Mirage and Ratchet and Optimus - and it’s a relief, to know that he’s not going to be alone, that he won’t scare them off, that he doesn’t have to argue about it. It feels good to trust.

With that said, he’s not going to just give up the fight entirely because Mirage won...

“I said I’ll be good, didn’t I? No running my minders off - I can handle that, ‘Raj.”

The look of unspeakable doubt that Mirage offers in reply says more than words, and Jazz cycles his optics.

“Fine - I won’t scare off whichever mech you send to keep an optic on me.”

Mirage’s gaze doesn’t even flicker.

“And I won’t run off. Or order them to leave me alone. Happy?”

That gets Mirage to smile. “Very.” The agent’s hand reaches up, brushing against Jazz’s shoulder. “You know we love you, right? Despite yourself.”

“Bah. You know as well as I do how things work with you spies - mech with the best aft leads, and all you voyeurs just follow the view. You just want to make sure I don’t bruise the goods.” That gets a laugh, and Jazz slips to his pedes as the note of seriousness in Mirage’s field fades and is replaced by the blue mech’s usual air of casual amusement. “But yeah, I’ll come catch up, since I’m going to have to introduce myself to the symbionts anyways.”

“Thank you.” Mirage rises too, following Jazz to the door and waiting patiently as the saboteur disengages the locks. He shimmers into nonbeing as he slips through the doors - and only the faint sound of pedefalls lets Jazz track him down the hall. The noise is for his benefit, of course - Mirage, when he wants to be, is utterly silent. ::I’ll see you then.::

With a soft, annoyed huff, Jazz lets the door click shut.

Climbing back on his berth, he pings the alarm in Soundwave’s room, and settles in to wait, tuning out the world around him as he pulls up the feed again. What he gets makes him want to purr - because Soundwave, despite himself, is very, very cute.

The high-pitched beeping awakens him - but unlike the prior day’s panic, today Soundwave can’t seem to bring himself to get up. The carrier groans, and curls back in on himself with what looks like a whimper, tugging the blanket up around his shoulders a little higher.

He lays there for a long minute, seeming to strain to ignore the beeping - but when the irritating noise doesn’t abate, he slowly shuffles upright, shoulders slumped with drowsy resistance.

It takes a moment for Jazz to realize that something’s wrong, but Soundwave, once upright, doesn’t move. His frame sits for a moment, swaying slightly, shoulders suddenly gone too rigid, and then, slowly, slowly, he starts to lean forwards, entire frame listing until he’s nearly doubled over on the edge of the berth, staring down at the floor.
Jazz lets out a silent curse before darting out into the hallway.

This time he doesn’t bother making a show of unlocking the door - a silent comm is enough to have it sliding open for him. He stays quiet as he enters the room, however, video feeds dissolving into reality in a disorienting blur of himself-within-his-vision, and Soundwave doesn’t even seem to notice his entrance, despite the flood of light into the room.

The carrier is moaning. It’s obvious he’s in pain, obvious he’s disoriented, and it only takes a second for Jazz to make the connection between his debilitated state and the miscalibrated gyros Ratchet had warned him about. It’s an uncomfortable issue, but not one that’s dangerous - and there’s nothing to do but wait out the discomfort until the Soundwave’s own autorepairs can calibrate the sensors.
Jazz settles in to watch.

Soundwave lets out another soft moan, one that trails off to a whimper. He’s swaying slightly, and the way his shoulders have hitched up makes his whole frame look rigid and uncomfortable, like he’s relying on that forced stillness to keep himself on the berth. He’s still intently fixated on the floor, and with new context, Jazz realizes that he’s trying to get a lock on a fixed point to use as the autorepairs run.

Jazz keeps his footsteps low as he approaches the unsteady carrier, not wanting to alert Soundwave to his presence. The mech doesn’t seems to notice Jazz’s presence at all - not even when he lays a hand on his shoulder and begins rubbing gently in a soothing circle.

“Hey, Soundwave…”

There’s no response - the carrier looks far too dizzy and weak to hear him, and the touch seems to go unnoticed even when Jazz makes it a little more firm, squeezing neck cables with enough pressure to bleed the tension from them. Soundwave just whimpers, and Jazz can sympathize - the pain the carrier is in is one that the saboteur is intimately familiar with, and the sensation of not being able to trust your own sensors, your own frame, is almost as disorienting as the dizziness.

It takes several minutes, but eventually, the worst of Soundwave’s nausea seems to abate. He’s still clearly aching, but he at least seems to have found his balance, and the worst of his trembling is all but gone. Jazz lets his hand slip to the carrier’s shoulder, firm squeezes turning into gentle circles, and grins as Soundwave unconsciously arches into the softer touches, seeking the comfort of warm, painless contact. The saboteur is still apparently unnoticed - Soundwave hasn’t even looked up - and it’s pretty easy to tell that the mech is far from focused…

“Feeling better?”

That guess is proven beautifully right when Soundwave freezes, optics shooting up, and an absolute tidal wave of terror overwhelms his field.

They hang there like that for a long moment, Soundwave too stunned to react as Jazz carefully, patiently keeps rubbing his shoulder - and then Soundwave slowly slips down, Jazz careful not to let his fingers slip as the carrier sinks to his knees on the floor. The gesture is lithe and far more graceful than he’s expect from such a bulky frame, and Soundwave takes the kneeling posture almost elegantly before bowing his helm.

Jazz wants to purr at the absolute, gorgeous defeat in the gesture, even though he knows that it rings hollow. This is fear, not the willing submission he’s looking for - but it’s appealing nevertheless, the way Soundwave is vulnerable beneath him, shoulders bared to his touch, frame tense and uneasy but offering no resistance as he begins to explore the carrier’s neck and trace his way back up to those delicate antenna.

A few gentle touches, a little pressure, is all it takes to get Soundwave’s attention back on himself, and Jazz relishes in how easily the carrier is letting himself be controlled. Touch-starvation is something he’s familiar with from working with his own team - a desperate need for affection, for contact, when a mech’s been alone and afraid too long - and feeding it, offering Soundwave the care his frame is craving, is hardly a burden, not when every little bit of kindness he offers is so easily accepted. Soundwave is still uncomfortable with his touch, afraid of pain and punishment, that much is clear, but the carrier is defenseless in light of his own frame-urges, and Jazz is more than willing to use that against him, playing on the need until he gets the conscious acceptance he wants…

But despite how careful Jazz is being, Soundwave’s frame doesn’t loosen up, even though the carrier doesn’t try to resist Jazz’s exploration. The mech looks like he’s expecting to be beaten, like he expects Jazz to hurt him for his dizziness or some kind of perceived disobedience, and Jazz turns his focus to reassuring the carrier that there’s no pain coming, not for something outside of his control.

“Good mech.” He rewards Soundwave’s resignation to his touch with a few gentle scratches, right below the antenna, and can’t help a little purr at the way the carrier unconsciously arches into his hand, needing the affection even as he fears the touch. “Well? Are you feeling better, Soundwave?”

The carrier looks… uncertain at best; the question has clearly disarmed him, and Jazz lets him think about it for a few seconds. When it becomes clear that there’s no answer coming, however, he pushes on - Jazz doesn’t want to make Soundwave even more worried, if he can’t even think of a response.

“Gyro troubles, right? It’s alright, Soundwave - Ratchet said that some calibration issues might crop up. Are they clearing up, or do you need a medic to recalibrate them for you?”

That seems to shake Soundwave out of his stupor; the carrier hastily shakes his helm, field teeking nervously. “Gyros: settled. Soundwave: does not need medical attention. Dizziness: unanticipated - not serious.” He does seem to be telling the truth; the swaying is gone, and Soundwave’s optics are even and bright. Still, Jazz makes a note to keep an eye out - gyro issues are usually just unpleasant, but they tend to come in waves that can take a mech off-guard and result in a nasty fall, and they often indicate other damage that needs to be accounted for.

And despite his steady reply, Soundwave still seems distracted, lost in thought, and Jazz lets him sort his processor out, taking the chance to examine the carrier a little more as he waits for Soundwave’s attention to return to him. Soundwave… looks much, much better than he had the day before, that much is obvious even at a casual glance. His frame is clean and glossy, although it needs a polish to be back in really top shape. His hands are steadier, too, and it’s obvious that having even a half-tank of med-grade rather than just a line drip has helped jump-start his own repair systems - Soundwave’s plating is clamped tight, not offering any chance for Jazz to explore and see how his protoform scars are recovering, but patches of newly-repaired cable glint glossy and smooth in the room’s dim light.

By the time Soundwave focuses back on Jazz, he’s already returned to gently massaging the carrier’s shoulder - nothing blatant, just a warm, strong touch. Soundwave arches into it without even seeming to notice, and Jazz lowers his voice as he responds, not wanting to startle the other mech.

“Good - I’m glad. Didn’t really want to have to spend the day in the medbay… It’s alright, mech. You’re doing fine. Did I startle you, coming in like that?”

Soundwave nods, uncertainty and worry plain. “Soundwave: apologizes. Jazz: was not noticed. Soundwave: was focused on calibrating gyros, failed to pay attention to surrounding.” He flinches down a little, but meets Jazz’s optics with a steady gaze and a deferential duck, voice less confident and field singing with deference and apology. “Soundwave: did not intend to fail to obey Jazz’s orders. Failure: will not be repeated.”

Jazz laughs at that - it’s obvious that Soundwave is afraid of him still, but the fear is better controlled, and despite the way every shift of the carrier telegraphs submission and unease, Soundwave is far bolder than the trembling wreck from the night before. Jazz knows better than to write a mech who’s obeying him off - Soundwave is complying to protect himself, and now, healthy and whole, it’s much easier to see how far from broken the other mech is.

“It’s alright, mech. I wasn’t planning on punishing you for a bit of dizziness - nothing you could’ve seen coming. Like I said, Ratchet warned me you might have a few issues. And you did good, once you noticed me there - that’s enough for now.”

That doesn’t mean that he doesn’t expect pain, of course, and dread it. Soundwave seems to sag with relief at the casual tone in Jazz’s voice, and the torturer can almost see his processor trying to figure out what to say next to keep him appeased.

“Soundwave: grateful for Jazz’s lenience. Soundwave: will do his best to please Jazz.”

“I appreciate that, mech.” Jazz laughs again, watching carefully as Soundwave relaxes a tiny, tiny bit more. It’s reassuring to see how trusting the carrier is, that words are still enough to calm him even subconsciously - building on that trust is harder.

Jazz gestures towards the berth with an easy hand, the tray there seemingly gone unnoticed in Soundwave’s initial distraction. “You’ve been doing well so far. I brought a little something for you, though - maybe we can see how much you really mean that, hm?”

That makes Soundwave’s whole frame stiffen.

Whatever tension that Jazz had eased away redoubles, and Soundwave’s fans kick in, revving up to speed with a soft, panicky whirr. The carrier’s plating clamps tight, but he doesn’t try to edge away or cower back - only the way he quails under Jazz’s hands shows how honestly scared he is.

Jazz keeps his touch firm but careful as he guides Soundwave towards the berth, the kneeling mech shuffling along the floor obediently even as his stress ratchets up another notch - and Jazz watches carefully for any sign that it’s the berth, rather than the energon, that he’s afraid of. Soundwave doesn’t do more than flinch as Jazz swings up onto the mattress, however - and the memory of the calm way that the carrier had settled into the berth and allowed Jazz to tuck him in assuages the saboteur’s concerns that the mech is dealing with any sort of trauma in that disturbing vein.

When he’s well-settled, Soundwave nestled between his pedes in a submissive pose that gives Jazz full access to the carrier’s upper frame, Jazz reaches for the cube. He tries to keep the gesture subtle, to avoid making the carrier more uneasy, but the whimper lets him know that he’s failed at that - and the sob that follows, half-choked and pitiful, is enough to make him stop and return his full attention to the carrier.
Soundwave looks terrified.

The carrier flinches back as he meets Jazz’s gaze, hands rising to protect his chassis, and after a moment, his helm ducks low, protecting those delicate antenna from a strike that Soundwave obviously believes is coming. The carrier looks like a beaten turbohound, expecting pain for even the slightest misbehavior, and it’s obvious that Jazz will need to address punishment, and how he administers it, sooner rather than later… The thought of leaving Soundwave in such an uncertain place, with no idea of what might trigger pain or how to know when Jazz intends to hurt him, is unnerving.

When no blow comes, Soundwave’s helm rises slightly. Jazz is careful not to acknowledge it, but he waits until he can see the faintest line of red light peeking out at him before slowly, slowly pulling his hand back away from the cube.

There’s nothing to gain from pushing the already frightened mech too hard - forcing through the problem isn’t going to get him the results he wants even if Soundwave manages to choke the energon down, and Jazz pulls his hand back, optics fixed on Soundwave’s.

“Does the thought of being fed by my hand again really disturb you so much, Soundwave?” Soundwave flinches, and Jazz presses a tiny hint of irritation into his field to motivate the carrier. “I told you, I’m not going to hurt you. You’ve tasted the energon - you know it’s good.”

The words, true as they may be, seem to do little to reassure the carrier. Soundwave’s whole plating is taut, optics dim, and there’s a faint tremble in his frame as he stares up at Jazz. His whole field spins with emotion - fear, horror, humiliation and a surging, toxic mortification that is unsettling even just to teek.

Jazz vents heavily, and Soundwave cringes.

Instead of pulling away, however, the saboteur keeps his touch carefully gentle, running his fingers along the smooth lines of Soundwave’s helm. Despite the turmoil in his field, Soundwave moves easily with the touches, letting Jazz do what he wants - still-dim optics flick to the cube, fear overwhelming mortification in his field, but the saboteur carefully keeps his hands where Soundwave can track them, not even glancing towards the energon, and Soundwave slowly, slowly settles.

Instead, he lets patient acceptance pulse across his field, and does his best to relax the stressed mech.

“It’s alright, Soundwave. We’re won’t start yet, if it upsets you that much. Just try to calm down, alright? I’d rather not have to clean up another purge.”
Soundwave shudders at his words, cringing down again, and a choked sob makes it’s way from the carrier’s vocalizer - the blue mech looks nauseous already, and it’s clear that he’s only getting more distressed.
Jazz softens his voice even more, letting a soothing hum into his tone as he croons a reassurance. He lets his fingertips slip from the carrier’s helm downward, running over sensitive cheeks and slipping to lift his chin, until Soundwave’s full focus is on the saboteur’s face.

“I told you yesterday, Soundwave. This isn’t punishment. Or torture.” That gets him an uneasy whimper, and a flinch, but Jazz pushes on, unwilling to let Soundwave pull away from him. “I want you to learn to trust that. And I’m willing to give you time, Soundwave, time and effort. I want your effort, and your obedience - not your pain.”

Soundwave’s whole field still hisses with stress and anxiety, but slowly, very slowly, the carrier’s frame relaxes - not into the looseness of calm, but as if Soundwave is forcing himself to give in to Jazz’s touch. It’s not ideal - Jazz would prefer that the carrier be more comfortable - but it’s still a promising sign. If Soundwave is willing to listen, to work with him even if it’s just because he’s hungry or trying to ingratiate himself, it will be all the easier cutting away at the choking layers of shame and defeat that surround him.

It takes a few more moments, but Soundwave does eventually seem to come to a decision, voice soft but firm.

“Soundwave: will obey.”

“Good mech.” He continues to just touch the carrier, nothing painful, avoiding the delicate areas around his eyes when Soundwave tenses, and hums his satisfaction - Soundwave sags a little, relaxing as Jazz makes clear that he’s not upset. “I don’t expect perfection, Soundwave…”

Jazz takes a moment as the carrier processes that to debate his next question. The depth of Soundwave’s aversion to fueling is obvious, but the cause is still unclear - the only lead he has is that it was his words that made the carrier purge. It’s not a lot to go on, but… “Tell me what makes this harder for you, Soundwave. Tell me what I need to work you past - and what will make this easier for you, if you know. I don’t want fueling, giving in to me, to be miserable for you - and I don’t want this to be forever.”

Soundwave stills under his hand, and it’s clear how distressing he finds the question when a faint whine reaches the saboteur’s audials, the uneasy sound of Soundwave’s fans whirring. There’s no need to pressure the carrier to answer, and Jazz lets the blue mech take the time he needs to decide on his response.

Honestly, he doesn’t really expect one - not beyond a generic, defensive reply. Soundwave… the carrier can’t hide how scared he is of Jazz, how much he still expects abuse and cruelty and flat-out torture, and Jazz has intentionally done little to address those fears directly - it makes sense that he would hide his weaknesses. But Jazz has the advantage of patience, and all the time he needs to pry open the carrier’s armor, and even an obtuse, evasive reply will give him a start…

It’s a complete surprise when Soundwave offers a real answer, honesty clear in the bright red optics that stare nervously up into the saboteur’s.

“Starweave: often mocked, derided Soundwave while refueling. Speech: makes refueling difficult, is distracting…”

Jazz lets a relaxed laugh curl over his lips, as if the thought is… amusing, beneath concern - even as he feels the knot of anger in his chest tighten. It’s irrational, he knows that, Soundwave has suffered through so much worse - but the thought of mocking, of shaming and deriding a starving mech until he can’t even fuel, makes his spark surge with fury. He’s been that mech, suffered that sort of cruelty at the hands of another - but those mechs were monsters, beasts living their lives on the edge of society that were eventually turned on and tortured in turn, not highly-ranked, respected commanders, allies, colleagues...

Still, there’s no room for that anger, not when Soundwave is slumped before him, optics bright, revulsion in his gaze and shame in his field. He’ll have time later to deal with his own rage - there are protocols for this, when something cuts too close to the personal, and it’s far from the first time a prisoner has affected him like this. It’s Soundwave who needs care and focus now - Jazz’s feelings can wait, and so he puts a teasing lilt on his glossa and a casual air in his stance.

“Humiliating, you mean? Makes you feel embarrassed - makes you feel ashamed? I can understand that…” He pauses, and smirks. “But I’m not going to put up with it, Soundwave. I expect you to listen to me whenever I want to talk to you - understand?”

The gentle, commanding words seem to have Soundwave nodding along before he can even process them fully, and Jazz presses that advantage, offers another command before Soundwave can rally and decide to hide or lie -

“What kind of things did he call you, Soundwave? Tell me - I want to know.”

The answers are as prompt as he had hoped. “Weak. Foolish. Disgusting.” Soundwave glances away, and if the revulsion in his voice didn’t make it obvious how badly the next word affects him, the shudder that rocks his frame certainly would. “Mechanimal.”

The words are milder than anything he’d expected, not from the obvious fear and disgust they cause, but that makes little difference. In reality, the words mean almost nothing - it’s the way they make Soundwave react, the control they have over his emotions, that is the challenge to be dealt with, and Jazz has worked with too many traumatized mechs to discount the carrier’s reaction just because the words that affect him aren’t degrading enough. That in some corner of his mind Soundwave believes what he’s been told, is letting it rot away at him, is clear - and it’s that agreement that needs to be dealt with.

Rather than speak, offering words that he knows the carrier will only, can only doubt, Jazz lets his emotions flow into his field - there’s no need to fake his sympathy or his pity, but he suppresses his anger in favor of more productive sensations: pride, gratitude, encouragement… He lets his fingers cup Soundwave’s face, and leans forward until they’re helm-to-helm, until he can shutter his optics and feel Soundwave’s field in return as it slowly relaxes, emotions once again mixed and confused and grateful all at once.

By the time Soundwave is once again calm, Jazz has had a chance to plan his next move. It’s obvious, now, what it is that the carrier’s so afraid of - why even good energon is enough to make him flux - and overcoming that shame…

It’s not the first time he’s had to work with a mech who disgusts himself.

“It’s okay, Soundwave. I’m not going to call you that… He was wrong to call you that.” Doubt flares in Soundwave’s field, bright and vivid for a single moment before it’s suppressed, and the saboteur presses on. “You’ve been very brave, you know that? I know you’re scared of me - but you’re trying so hard to be good.”

Jazz keeps his voice warm, accepting, kind - and Soundwave trembles a little, looking torn. The carrier looks like he wants to deny the praise, wants to push back and proclaim his weakness, and there’s no room to let up at all.

“You’re not foolish, not disgusting. You survived, didn’t you? Survived everything he could throw at you. You’ve adapted, you’ve endured - that doesn’t make you disgusting, Soundwave.”

That wins a little more agitation from Soundwave, a haggard, doubting look, a flicker of dull pain in the carrier’s red optics. Soundwave doesn’t trust him yet, doesn’t understand why Jazz is praising him, and the distress that even such small compliments are causing him is obvious; rather than push further, Jazz eases off, not wanting to overwhelm the other mech yet.

“Are you alright, Soundwave?”

He gives the blue mech a moment to sort his processor. The carrier looks - teeks - like something fragile, and Jazz lets him reorganize his thoughts, gives him a moment to come up with a real answer.
Soundwave’s voice, when he speaks, is hesitant.

“Soundwave: is not damaged.”

The reply is absurd, but Jazz carefully schools his response - it’s the reply of a mech who doesn’t have a better answer to give, and it only highlights how unsteady Soundwave is feeling, and how precarious he feels in his current position. The fact that he’s getting any answer at all, let alone one that displays such vulnerability, is encouraging - it means that Soundwave is at least willing to work with him, and that the blue mech isn’t either trying or able to lie to him.

When he doesn’t react in anger, Soundwave seems to relax - his entire frame had gone rigid almost before he finished speaking, and it’s obvious that he expected… derision, perhaps, or a blow for the unsatisfactory answer. Instead, Jazz chuckles softly, letting his amusement paint his voice as he reassures the carrier further.

“That’s okay, Soundwave. That’s good. I don’t expect you to be anything else, for now. You’re not a mechanimal, Soundwave - you don’t always have to know how you feel.” The soothing words make Soundwave practically sag with relief - and at the last sentence, his whole frame shudders, and Soundwave lets out a noise that’s almost a sob as he vents heavily. The carrier leans into Jazz’s fingers, letting the saboteur carefully explore the smooth lines of his face, and Soundwave’s bright optic stare up at him with a mixture of confusion and gratitude that makes it obvious how vulnerable he is.

Jazz makes another mental note of the word - mechanimal - and keeps exploring. When his fingers slip low enough that he can press them into the tight cables of the carrier’s shoulder, Soundwave hesitates for a moment - and then the carrier arches, slowly and deliberately, into Jazz’s hand, optics fixed on the saboteur’s.

The utter concentration in the gesture only highlights how unconscious Soundwave’s previous reactions to Jazz’s touch had been - but seeing the carrier ask for something, even indirectly, is enough to bring a smile to the SpecOp’s mech’s lips. Soundwave is still very tense, but moment by moment, he’s relaxing, and even if it’s confusing him, it’s clear that the carrier is doing his best to adapt to Jazz’s treatment of him - as is made obvious by the surge of relief when Soundwave realizes that Jazz isn’t annoyed by his request.

Jazz sits still like that for a few moments, not changing anything except to make his grip a little more firm in response - just keeping up a slow, steady massage of one of the carrier’s shoulders, rubbing soothingly at the plating and scratching lightly at the thin border between cable and protoform. Soundwave’s optics slowly dim, not offlining but darkening, and Jazz lets him relax until he’s completely subdued under the saboteur’s warm fingers before speaking.

“Soundwave…” He pauses his efforts for just a moment - just long enough for Soundwave’s optics to brighten and the carrier to once again focus on his face. “Soundwave, I’m going to give you fuel now, alright?”
He expects the renewed tension in Soundwave’s frame, and the teek of fear as Soundwave flinches away from him - but there’s nothing he can say that will calm the carrier more than silence. Instead of speaking, Jazz watches as Soundwave processes, emotion rippling across his field, and slowly calms himself, slowly makes the connection that Jazz hasn’t tried to hurt him yet - and slowly relaxes back into his touch.
After a minute, Soundwave nods, a cautious, fragile gesture of acceptance and surrender, and when he glances up, it’s to flinch back almost immediately - but Jazz just smiles down at him until the carrier calms again and meets his optics, uncertain but willing to at least extend that tiny bit of trust.

“Good mech.” Jazz honestly does feel a little rush of pride at the other mech’s reaction - he’s asked a lot of the carrier in the last day, and to see Soundwave already so willing to tolerate his touch and accept his kindness is a relief. All the more so if it lets him fuel the carrier without another purge - he wants Soundwave as calm as possible for this.

Slowly, he lets his hand move away from Soundwave’s shoulder, and the carrier immediately focuses on the change. Jazz is again careful as he reaches for the cube of energon, ready to pull back and spend more time working on Soundwave if the carrier looks too upset, but aside from a nervous whimper that makes Soundwave flinch with embarrassment, there’s no sign of resistance. Instead, the carrier seems to brace himself, plating tightening a little, chin setting itself stubbornly, and Soundwave stares up at him with frightened, determined optics.

With his free hand, Jazz rewards the carrier - a few gentle scratches at the base of his antenna that win the saboteur a quiet purr - and carefully draws over the energon, already neatly mixed. He makes sure that Soundwave can see it well, rolls the cube in his fingers to show the thickness of the energon and let the brightness of the fuel play off his fingers, before lowering it to his lap - he wants the carrier to be looking forward to a good fueling, not worrying about the quality of what’s being poured into his tanks before it can even touch his glossa.

“I’m going to fuel you, alright, Soundwave? Just like a medic - nice and easy. We’re going to go slow today, okay? Slow, and if you get too stressed, if you need to take a break, I’ll let you. I’m not going to make you purge, I’m not going to try to choke you - I won’t even touch you if you don’t want me to, not beyond holding your helm. But I am going to talk, alright?”

Jazz waits patiently for a moment - there’s no real chance that Soundwave will choose to refuse him, not when the other mech has already had a chance to ready himself and is seated before him with determination lighting his optics, but this - the whole feeding thing - is all about trust and obedience and care, and Soundwave needs to feel like he’s being listened to even if he doesn’t yet believe that his choices will be respected. Soundwave doesn’t argue, though his discomfort with the thought of being spoken to while feeding is obvious, and Jazz pushes on.

“I’m going to talk - about you. But I’m not going to tease you. I’m not going to call you names, Soundwave, or try to mock you. I’m just going to talk about you - and if it gets to be too much, I’ll stop, and you can finish fueling, but I do expect you to try to listen, understand?”

This time, he waits for a reply - for confirmation that Soundwave is listening, and that the other mech actually does understand what’s going to happen. That’s vital, and Jazz is more than prepared to be patient, to sit and comfort and give Soundwave another chance to collect himself - but after a second, Soundwave does nod, and Jazz takes him at his word with an approving smile.

“Good mech.”

Soundwave is obliging as Jazz presses the cube to his lips, helm tilting back to allow for the neat pour that the saboteur wants with the familiarity of a mech used to being hand-fed. Jazz is cautious, however - it takes a moment for Soundwave to open his lips, optics shuttering as the first energon touches his glossa, and the saboteur makes sure that the flow starts off slow enough for the carrier to handle.

The mix of expressions that flood across Soundwave’s face as he takes that first draught are beautiful - nervousness, fading to sudden surprise as the flavor hits. This time, Jazz has added a few different minerals - most are sweet, but cinnabar is fairly sour for a sulfide, and there’s enough of a fizz to this particular blend to give it a little kick.

It’s obvious how much Soundwave enjoys it - pleasure bursts across his field in a humming rush, and the soft, deep purr emanating from his chassis gives away what dark optics can’t. Jazz chuckles, the carrier’s satisfaction amusing in light of his earlier reluctance, and those optics flare to life - the saboteur hastens to reassure Soundwave when he sees the first glimmer of shame in the carrier’s gaze.

“Not making fun of you, mech, I promise. Just… it’s nice to see you enjoying the fuel, alright? Much better than last time. I’m glad you like it.” Soundwave… continues to look uncertain, and Jazz offers a little more reassurance, and a little praise - he had, after all, said he was going to talk...

“You’re doing very well, Soundwave. You’re doing so well - better than I thought you would.” Soundwave doesn’t seem to mind that, and Jazz decides to go a little further, letting his hand caress the same sensitive antenna he’s been toying with as he keeps the energon flow steady. “This isn’t so bad, is it, Soundwave? And when you’re done, I’ll go and get Ratbat, and you can have some time with him, alright? You’re earning it.”

He knows it’s what the carrier wants most, and Soundwave reacts as he expects - a bright surge of eager excitement, and thrumming purr that makes Soundwave’s whole frame vibrate. That enthusiasm lasts for all of a few moments -

- and then something flickers in Soundwave’s optics, and suddenly the carrier looks distressed, then frightened, and with barely any warning, Soundwave is choking, energon sputtering from between his lips, and Jazz barely gets the cube away from him before the other mech can spill it on himself or really gag himself on fuel. He squeezes down on the audial in his hand - careful not to damage, but the pressure is enough to get Soundwave’s focus back on himself, and distract him from whatever thought had gotten the better of him long enough for Jazz to try to calm the carrier.

“It’s okay, Soundwave - you’re doing just fine. Vent it out - you’re going to be okay.”

Soundwave sways, leaning against the touch for support rather than in the earlier gesture of encouragement he had offered, and his optics darken as the carrier tries to control his spasming tanks - Jazz can feel every helpless surge as Soundwave’s frame rocks, and it takes far longer than he would hope for the spasms to weaken, a light touch all he can offer until the movement has faded entirely. By the time they’re gone, Soundwave has slumped over, exhaustion from the physical strain of resisting the purge obvious.

The carrier takes another moment to recover before glancing up, and his voice is thin and weak when he whispers soft words to Jazz.

“Thank… thank you.”

The gratitude in his voice is wholly unexpected, and it takes a moment for Jazz to even figure out why he’s being thanked. It sends a sharp sting - quickly, carefully hidden - of disgust down his frame, to realize that Soundwave is this grateful that he was willing to stop, that the carrier expected him to… what? Keep pouring energon as he struggled to vent? Mock him? Force him to purge again? and Jazz takes a moment to shove his own disturbance down even further before he accepts the carrier’s gratitude.

“You’re welcome.”

Jazz takes his chance to contemplate the carrier’s reaction to his earlier words as he wipes a thin spatter of energon off the other mech’s chin. The trigger for his sudden distress isn’t obvious, and Jazz carefully picks apart his own words as he tries to figure out what might cause such an intense response, but nothing springs to light - and then it comes to him, the obvious answer that had eluded his focus, the one thing that a mech who’s become accustomed to degradation and shame might be wholly unequipped to handle.

The thought of a mech with such obvious potential being so utterly taken off-guard by praise, by a simple, honest compliment, is baffling, in its way - but at least it’s something he can work with, and it takes only moments for Jazz to come up with a plan once his approach is clear.

It starts with getting the other mech fueling again. He proffers the cube, but this time, he doesn’t press it to Soundwave’s lips - instead, he lets the carrier lean in to take it when he’s ready, and gives Soundwave a few moments to adjust his posture before he slowly begins his pour. As he becomes more confident that Soundwave isn’t going to pull away or sputter again, he lets the flow increase until it’s a smooth, steady stream that he’s sure the carrier can handle - and it’s only once Soundwave has been fueling easily for a few long moments that he cautiously moves on to the second stage of his plan.

It starts with touching - Jazz lets his free hand trail back downward until he can toy with the sensitive, delicate cables of the carrier’s throat. Soundwave tenses, like he’s expecting to be choked - and it would be easy to gag the mech and make him purge, or damage the delicate sensors - but the saboteur only massages the wires lightly, not enough to cause even minor reflux. It’s clearly disorienting to the carrier, but slowly, Soundwave calms into the touches, the edge of his fear blunting as Jazz continues the steady contact without ever letting the sensation dip into pain.

When Soundwave seems settled, as calm as he’s going to get with his neck bared and being touched, Jazz moves on to the third stage, although he keeps his fingers roaming across the cables freely.
The voice that he lets his vocalizer dip into… Well. The Voice. It’s a masterpiece of training and experimentation, the work of years of practice, and Jazz is almost inordinately proud of it, for all that it bothers Mirage… A deep, rolling purr that makes mechs quake before him, dark and dangerous, but with just a hint of friendliness that makes the overall effect practically poisonous. It’s the sort of voice that would be sultry, from another mech - but with the force of Jazz’s lethal reputation behind it, it only conveys the easy nonchalance with which he might choose any of a number of unpleasant ends for the listener.

Or that’s the goal, normally - but here, it’s more of an experiment. Just the edge of that purr, the faintest hint of that deep, lilting voice, nowhere near the full force of that dangerous tone - but the reaction that little bit gets him is more than rewarding.

“You’re doing well, Soundwave. You’re beautiful, you know that, right?”

Soundwave freezes for a moment - and then his whole frame absolutely quakes. His field flares brilliantly with a mix of terror and confusion, and uncertainty fills his bright optics - but he doesn’t pull away, and there’s a pure pulse of gratitude in his field that would make no sense at all, except the Jazz is already watching for it. It’s obvious he’s on the right track - Soundwave looks utterly unable to handle the thought of being thought beautiful.

Jazz tries again - a different tack this time, pushing forwards before Soundwave can rally.

"You're clever, too..."

It’s obviously despite himself, but Soundwave brightens at the words even as another surge of uncertainty teeks his field. The carrier seems hardly to notice the soft, pleased croon that slips past his own lips - and despite the gratitude in his optics, he looks on-edge, like he doesn’t know what to make of the compliment or how to react.

Despite the pleasure he clearly is getting from being praised, Soundwave looks more than a little overwhelmed, like it will only take a little more to push him over the edge and into a churning, teeming sea of his own emotions. His whole frame is just a little tight, and his optics are a little too bright, and it’s half curiosity and half sadism that makes Jazz give that shove, the desire to see Soundwave surrender to the storm of emotions overtaking his field, and watch as he gets pulled apart...

Jazz is, of course, an expert - and it’s instinct, honed over years of taking apart other mechs to see what makes them tick, that forms the third compliment, one that he knows Soundwave won’t believe even as it breaks him apart. He drops his voice a touch - a little deeper, a little warmer, confidence and affection together - and pushes.

“And... you’re a good carrier, Soundwave.”

Soundwave falls, and when he lands, he shatters. The carrier chokes, his optics brighten until they’re almost golden, he pulls away - and Jazz pulls the cube back and out of danger even as he tugs Soundwave forwards, until the carrier is tucked between his knees, curled in on himself, half-sobbing, entire frame trembling. Jazz doesn’t stop, though - it’s half-addicting, watching as praise strips away Soundwave’s barriers, and the urge to see how far he can push the carrier is nearly overwhelming. This distress, born from his gentleness rather than Starweave’s cruelty, is so much better than watching the carrier just cower before him, and Jazz indulges himself. Whatever damage he does, he can undo, building back up what he breaks, and Soundwave is so sparkquellingly beautiful with his defenses torn asunder...

“You are. Brave… strong… intelligent… You spent months being tortured, and they’re all still alive, aren’t they? More than any reasonable mech could’ve asked of you… and you did so well.”

Soundwave hardly reacts to the individual words, but his shoulders shake a little more, and Jazz runs his hands over them in a grounding gesture even as he keeps talking. The carrier’s field is no longer just surging with emotions, it’s breaking up into an interweave of static and chaos that Jazz recognizes easily as the very cusp of a wave breaking.

“Still alive, and they’re repaired. They’re awake, and all together. Even now, you’re keeping them safe, trying so hard to obey me… They’re safe because of you…”

And that’s what makes Soundwave give in.

“Please: stop…”

Jazz does. He stills his vocalizer at the desperate need in Soundwave’s voice, the crackle in the plea, and resists the urge to grin at the absolutely ruined look in his optics. Soundwave looks destroyed, utterly taken apart by simple, steady praise, and there’s nowhere further to push - the carrier is done.

He collapses utterly, cringing back like he thinks Jazz is going to hit him, and his field goes the odd, disturbing flat of a mech who no longer is in control of his own emotions, one who is barely in control of himself. Soundwave whispers the words again, very, very softly, like a prayer, kneeling before Jazz like the saboteur controls his whole world - and it’s a heady, heady rush that burns away the last of the savage enjoyment Jazz gets from the mech’s suffering.

After all - he does control Soundwave’s whole world, and he can be a benevolent god…

Jazz lets himself slip to the floor, careful of Soundwave’s larger frame, and he wraps his arms around the carrier’s shoulders, pressing his helm to Soundwave’s in that same comforting gesture. He banishes the purr from his voice, slipping back into his normal register with a soft hum, and presses genuine affection into his field as he whispers quiet reassurances to Soundwave.

“It’s alright, Soundwave. It’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you, Soundwave, you’ve done nothing wrong, and you’re going to be alright. You’re safe. You’ve done well. You’re going to be alright…”

Soundwave doesn’t even seem to register the words, although his frame presses into Jazz’s embrace with a desperate neediness that makes Jazz want to hold him even tighter. The saboteur keeps whispering the soft, comforting words, half praise and half promise, despite the fact that they do nothing to stop the tremors - and it’s easy to tell that whatever panicked, desperate emotion has overtaken Soundwave has done so completely, and that the carrier won’t be able to break out of it alone.

Panic attacks are nothing he hasn’t dealt with before, as commander, tormenter, or victim, and Jazz knows how overwhelming that surge of emotion can be, how crushing it can seem, and how lost a mech can get in their own fear. They take patience and calm to handle - and Soundwave looks so lost, and his whole frame is curled against Jazz like all he’s looking for is direction, and guidance, and care…

“Soundwave… listen to me. Just listen. I’ll tell you what to do, okay? You don’t have to think. You don’t have to be scared.”

The soft command makes red optics brighten and then dim. Soundwave is clearly paying attention, but the mech is obviously overthinking his situation, not responding otherwise, and Jazz tries again, voice a little more firm - and order, rather than a suggestion.

“Stop thinking, Soundwave. Just listen.”

That gets a much more promising response - Soundwave’s optics meet his, flare and dim, and the carrier’s whole frame stiffens, plating stilling until the shudders are reduced to faint trembling. It’s obvious he’s got the carrier’s attention - now he only needs to guide the other mech home, back to his own frame and safety and relative calm.

“It’s okay, Soundwave. You’re okay. You’re panicking, alright? You’re having a panic attack. You’re going to be alright, though. Do you understand that? Nod if you do, please.”

It’s the typical first step - letting Soundwave know what’s happening, and why he feels so strange. There are physical side effects to panic attacks, although it’s hard to tell what the carrier might be experiencing - tension in his cables, tightness in his frame, dimness of vision, an urge to reflux or purge his tanks entirely - and it’s important that the carrier understand why they’re happening, that he’s not hurt or injured or dying, that the discomfort and pain will pass if he lets them… The carrier’s fans are roaring, as if he’s on the verge of overheating despite the relative coolness of his plating, and no doubt that’s not the only thing going wrong in the other mech’s frame.

Soundwave contemplates the question, as if it’s suddenly very, very hard to process - and, seeming to come to a conclusion, he shakes his helm hesitantly.

The gesture isn’t promising, but the thought that goes into it is - even if Soundwave doesn’t understand what’s going on, he’s obviously not so far gone as to be completely mindless. But he’s starting to look worried - and Jazz needs to let him know that the confusion, the doubt, are alright, that he’s safe even if he can’t give the saboteur the answers he wants.

“That’s okay, Soundwave. It’s okay if you don’t understand. I’m not going to be angry with you for not understanding.” A pause, and when Soundwave doesn’t respond, Jazz keeps going, moving on to a new question to push away the old one. “Can you move, Soundwave? Don’t try - just nod if you can.”

That gets another shake of the helm, and puts an end to any thought of getting Soundwave into the berth and off his knees - the carrier is too large to move himself, even if Jazz wanted to ignore the other mech’s wishes. Instead, Jazz shifts a little - the position he’s in isn’t comfortable, half-shoved under the berth, but taking weight off his knees helps, and Jazz leans a little more against Soundwave to support the new pose.

“Alright - you don’t have to move, you’re fine where you are. I’m going to cover you with a blanket, alright? You’re venting very hard, and I don’t want you to overwork your heaters to compensate.”

That, at least, gives him the chance to rise completely - Soundwave pulls after him, looking almost like he wants to reach out and drag he saboteur back to his side before dropping back to the ground with a look of real fear, as if he expects Jazz to abandon him while he’s still so desperate for comfort. The blanket on the berth is soft and warm, however, and Jazz pulls it over the carrier’s shoulders in a single easy gesture before tugging Soundwave back into a tight hug.

All of the tension drains from Soundwave’s frame with the renewed contact, the carrier going slack in Jazz’s arms.

Jazz just keeps holding him as Soundwave wraps his own arms around the saboteur - nothing restrictive, just a loose, needy embrace, like the carrier’s afraid he’s going to move again. Soundwave is more than a little heavy - but Jazz is more than willing to put up with the extra weight when he realizes that the carrier’s fans are slowly, slowly spinning down.

“Good mech.” That Soundwave is listening, is responding to anything other than a direct question or request, is very encouraging, and Jazz keeps his tone encouraging. “Good job, Soundwave. That’s - that’s very good. Are you feeling a little calmer?”

Again, the response takes a little while, Soundwave seeming to need to mull the question over. This time, however, he nods his reply, and Jazz lets himself smile - the carrier’s field is losing some of it’s eerie stillness, and what little of it he can teek is far more comfortable than the saboteur had dared to hope. Soundwave feels exhausted but calmer - there’s still a lot of fear and uncertainty, but it’s not the burningly intense emotion of a building terror.

“I’m glad.” Soundwave relaxes a little more, and snuggles into Jazz’s hold, letting out a seemingly unconscious purr when Jazz rubs a gentle circle on his back.

“I’m glad, Soundwave. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how hard this would be for you - it wasn’t my intention to hurt you or make you panic. Do you think you can talk to me? It’s up to you - I won’t push you, if you need a little time.”

He’s careful not to sound pushy, the lie flowing easily from his lips; as much as he had enjoyed working Soundwave up to, and down from, the raw edge of panic, now that he’s got Soundwave resettled and cuddling against him, Jazz doesn’t want to scare the carrier. But Soundwave looks consideringly up at him, and curls a little closer, and when Jazz adjusts his grip obligingly, he seems to come to a conclusion.

Soundwave’s voice is very soft, but it’s not slow, the words seeming to push from his lips like the carrier isn’t sure he’ll get the chance to start again. “Soundwave: can talk. Soundwave: is sorry; did not intend -”

That’s not what Jazz wants at all, however, and the saboteur hurries to cut him off. He needs answers, not grovelling, not when that grovelling is only going to start pushing Soundwave back to that fevered pitch of emotion again. Jazz wants Soundwave calm; he needs the other mech to understand that Jazz will offer him comfort when he’s upset, will accept weakness without punishment. He may not spend as much time amongst the Decepticons as Mirage, but the way Soundwave flinches back when he shows weakness says enough - a collapse like this? Amongst the ‘Cons, it would earn a beating - at best. Compound that with even just the tortures he knows Starweave used against the mech as punishment for a failed feeding, and the genesis of Soundwave’s fear is all too obvious.

“It’s okay. You don’t need to apologize - I’m not angry.” He squeezes just a little, enough to punctuate his words without hurting. “I just want to talk. Just want to talk - and I won’t get angry, whatever you tell me. Alright?”

He gets a nod, but it’s so, so unsteady, and Soundwave is still cowering. Jazz revs his engine, the noise a thrumming purr that resonates deep through his plating, and contemplates his next question.
“Do you like it, when I praise you, Soundwave?” He’s more cautious with this question. “Do you like being praised? Does it feel good, to hear that you’ve impressed me?”

Soundwave… seems to spend a moment just registering the question - he looks surprised that Jazz cares enough to even ask, and Jazz wants to reassure him, hold the scared mech and praise him until Soundwave understands how impressed he is and how impressive it is that he’s survived. There’s no easy answer to the question, and he knows that - but the answers he gets will tell him something, regardless, and hopefully guide him towards a solution to the carrier’s discomfort.

“Soundwave…” The carrier looks flustered as he glances up, dentae worrying at his lower lip. His words are uncertain, like he’s trying to be politic in his answer, but he does answer, and that’s enough.. “Soundwave: does not… dislike... being praised, complimented. Soundwave: is unused to being spoken of in such a manner. Soundwave: finds it difficult to understand.”

“Why is that?” Jazz keeps his tone casual as he waits, patiently, for a lie. Soundwave’s evading the question, and the saboteur doesn’t expect honesty, not today - if the carrier is even being honest with himself about the cause of his distress. Soundwave is squirming, looking like his nerve is gone, and there’s definitely still fear in him, of what Jazz is planning as much as of a direct attack.

But when Soundwave responds again, it’s with an uneasy stiffening of his frame and what looks like all the pride and courage he can muster.

“Jazz: is Autobot, captor, master.” And oh, but there’s an appealing sort of disgust in that word, and even afraid, it’s easy to see that Soundwave has no intention of being broken even if he submits entirely to Jazz’s commands. “Soundwave: is toy, slave. Jazz: has no reason to praise Soundwave. Soundwave: cannot understand why Jazz continues to, regardless.”

Jazz, despite himself, can’t hold back the staticky, startled laughter that bursts from his vocalizer.. There’s an earnestness in Soundwave’s field, a bright honesty in his weakness, that the saboteur hadn’t expected at all, and the truth, even just a partial one, is far more disarming than any lie Soundwave could have offered.

“You panicked over that?” But Soundwave recoils, a look of utter shame on his face, and the carrier looks like he’s about to cry as Jazz realizes his mistake. Soundwave shoves himself back, pulling away almost desperately, and Jazz hurries to catch him, firm hands pulling Soundwave back towards himself before the carrier can hide himself or his upset. The look of pain on Soundwave’s face is raw, and it’s obvious how much being teased - mocked - has hurt him.

Jazz kicks himself mentally, the memory of how affected Soundwave was by just a little praise mixing with the image of what must appear to Soundwave as him deriding the mech for his fear to settle like poison in his tanks. Jazz lowers his voice, leans in, and whispers soft apologies as he once again calms the upset he’s caused.

“I’m sorry, Soundwave.” Soundwave stills, his frame tense, at the words, and it’s obvious that an apology is the last thing he expected. When it’s clear that he doesn’t intend to start struggling again, Jazz carefully lets his hold loosen on the carrier’s shoulders, and slips them lower to rub in smooth circles over his back. “I didn’t mean to laugh - I wasn’t laughing at you. I was surprised - I had expected a different answer, that’s all. Thank you for being honest with me.”

After a moment, Soundwave snuggles a little closer to the saboteur, and Jazz waits for a response - but when none is offered, he keeps going. He needs Soundwave to understand that he’s valued, that Jazz isn’t going to give up on him, that he really does intend to work with the carrier rather than toss him aside or abuse him for failure…

“I wouldn’t have kept you, if I didn’t think you were worth praising, Soundwave.” That makes Soundwave glance back up at him, and Jazz lets himself be encouraged by the look of almost hopeful neediness in his optics. There’s a little risk, in treating the carrier like a possession, talking about him like he’s something to be owned - there’s always the chance that he might push too far and rub up against the other mech’s dignity - but Soundwave seems to find comfort in being directed, told what to do, and Jazz is more than willing to play into that.

“I don’t keep useless things, or ugly ones, or fools. Not as my agents, and not as my playthings, either. I grow bored too easily - I would not have bothered you, if I didn’t see something in you that appealed to me.” There’s a flush of pleasure in Soundwave’s field at that. But the carrier’s optics flicker, and he glances away - and Jazz decides to push a little and see where it gets him with the other mech still so on-edge, see if he can make Soundwave a little more confident in his position with the saboteur.

“I try to be a fair mech - I wouldn’t have chosen you as my pet if I didn’t think you could adapt to the role. I don’t set my mechs up for failure. You’d be rusting in a cell somewhere, waiting for Prowl or Optimus or one of the other commanders to decide what to do with you if I hadn’t seen anything of value in you.”

He offers a silent apology to both of the mechs for the lie. Prime is too kind - and feels too guilty - to have even considered it, and Prow... Prowl might have left them in a cell somewhere, it’s true - the mech has enough cold-sparked practicality to him that he probably wouldn’t have flinched at locking up an ‘enemy mech’ for a long, long time - but even then, it’d be a gilded cage…

But the lie is useful - he can see it working as Soundwave’s optics brighten with realization, as the mech weighs what might have happened, and cringes back as he realizes how much ‘worse’ his situation could have been… and that’s when Jazz tosses him a lifeline, a reminder that no, that’s not what happened at all… and, of course, a reminder that it’s Jazz who’s protecting them.

“But I did - and so you’re mended, and your symbionts are safe, and I’ll take good care of you as long as you continue to behave.”

The words make Soundwave bleed fear. Slowly, slowly he draws himself in, plating loosening until he’s half-curled at Jazz’s feet, field relieved and thankful and needy all at once. His voice is fragile when he speaks.

“Soundwave: is grateful. Soundwave: will serve Jazz, behave. Soundwave: Understands.”

Fragile, and submissive, and a little bit desperate - but it’s honest, too, and there’s a gratitude in Soundwave’s optics that can’t be faked, and the carrier shifts uneasily but leans closer to Jazz rather than pulling away, and the saboteur knows he’s won.

Not the war - one little concession is far from a full surrender - but right now, with his walls blown apart by kindness that he has no defense against, Soundwave is his. There’s no defiance left in Soundwave’s frame, and once again the carrier is bared before him, submissive and beautiful.

With that said, it won’t last. A rest, a chance to settle his processors, and the fire will reignite, some of that enviable strength will return… But Soundwave has broken for him, and will break again, and now they’re playing Jazz’s games and he can keep breaking away until Soundwave can’t rebuild anymore without support…

The thought is incredibly appealing, and Jazz almost lets himself daydream. But Soundwave deserves reassurance, should know that Jazz will keep him safe, and he deserves a chance to compose himself before getting his reward, as well… it would be cruel, to make the mech face one of his symbionts while he’s already so vulnerable..

“I’m not impatient, pet. I’m willing to give you time, I told you that. Today - you really tried for me. You did well. Tomorrow, we’ll try again, something a little different, maybe, until we find something that works for you.” Jazz strokes Soundwave’s helm, comforting and confident - with the steady assurance of a mech who knows that his words are true. Under his hand, Soundwave stills. “I’ll teach you what I expect, Soundwave - training is what makes a good pet, after all, not just fear or idle submission. But you’re clever - you’ll learn.”

Jazz gives Soundwave another little moment to process that, and watches as defeat - not fear, but rather resignation - makes the blue frame go limp. Soundwave is utterly drawn thin, stretched too far, and the saboteur’s firmness seems to be going over well - at the suggestion that he’s to be trained, taught how to please Jazz, his fans choke, but rather than revulsion in his optics, there’s something that looks a lot like need, a desperate relief that makes Jazz purr again.

“Do you think you can move, now, Soundwave? Come on - up on the berth.” Soundwave hurries to take his hand, but there’s a moment’s hesitation before he puts any weight on it, as if Soundwave expects to be shrugged off, before the carrier pulls himself up. It takes more than a little finagling to get Soundwave onto the berth - Jazz is between the larger frame and the mattress, and he’s supporting the heavier mech, and things get a little clumsy halfway through - but eventually, Soundwave is on the berth and half-curled on his side, as if he’s trying to keep warm or shield himself from a blow.

Jazz shoves the niggling question of which it might be from his processor. The only way to find out would be to ask - and now that Soundwave is calm and obedient, Jazz would rather maintain that peace than start nosing for answers. Still, he tugs at the edge of the blanket - he may not be able to convince Soundwave that he’s safe yet, but warmth and physical comfort are well within his control…

Blunt fingers wrap around the edge of the blanket, snuggling in deeper, and Jazz can only hope that the warmth will be enough to let the carrier rest peacefully. He settles along the berth’s edge, carefully running a hand down Soundwave’s plating - the smooth metal feels sleek under the mesh. Soundwave cuddles in a little further, tucks himself a little deeper, and Jazz lets out a soft, approving laugh.

“There we go.” He continues to stroke the carrier’s shoulders, and the contact is met with a soft, hitching purr. It’s obvious that Soundwave still enjoys the gentle contact, but he does have to meet Mirage... “You okay now, Soundwave? Are you going to be okay if I leave for a while?”

No.

The answer is no, that much is obvious in the way Soundwave’s optics flicker up to meet his, and Jazz prepares to comm Mirage, to let the spy know that something’s come up - he’s not going to abandon the carrier, not while Soundwave is vulnerable and when he’s only just promised that he’ll care for and support the other mech -

But then Soundwave nods, and his voice isn’t strong but it’s not desperate as he answers.

“Soundwave: will be fine. Jazz…”

The saboteur is still uncertain. It’s obvious that Soundwave still wants comfort - that the larger mech doesn’t want to be left alone - but at the same time, Jazz isn’t willing to disenfranchise the carrier entirely. Soundwave needs to be listened to, needs to feel like he’ll be respected even if Jazz is treating him like a pet - and ignoring his wants so blatantly is an obvious step backwards, an exchange of dignity for momentary comfort that can only hurt the carrier in the long run.

So, rather than give in to the desire to stay at Soundwave’s side as the carrier drifts into recharge, Jazz rises, letting his plating pop as he settles on his pedes and looks down at Soundwave.

“I’m just going to leave for a bit, Soundwave. I’ll be gone for an hour or two - I have a few things I have to do - and then I’ll bring Ratbat with me when I return. You two can spend a few hours together, okay?”

“Jazz: is generous.” Soundwave sounds exhausted, but the words have the same tint of honesty to them as before, and Jazz can’t help but smile down at the carrier for a moment before turning to leave.

He reaches the door with Soundwave’s optics still on his back - if the prickling sensation on his field didn’t make it obvious, the diffuse red light on the smooth enamel of the door would have. Jazz turns - and there’s worry obvious in Soundwave’s optics, like he’s not sure what to do -

“You can rest, if you want.” But Soundwave, thus far, has responded well to direction, has seemed reassured by having something to do, and Jazz can offer structure, if that’s what’ll make him comfortable. “I’ll make sure you know when I’m coming back - I’ll give you ten minutes, alright?”

Then Jazz slips out the door, letting it click shut behind him, and pauses to give it an almost affectionate glance.

::Mirage? I’ll be over in ten minutes. Let Aid know, alright?::

::Of course. How’d it go?::

::Beautifully.::

Jazz lets amusement flow down the connection, turning to wave at Cliffjumper with his familiar, easy grin as he strides down the hall towards the auxilary medbay, and pings another message, this one with a vidfile attached.

::It went beautifully.::