Chapter Text
“You must be new here.”
Jazz stiffened, muttering a curse under his breath. He had only been in Kaon for a joor, and already he was being called out. To be questioned so soon… Most special operations agents would consider it a bad omen.
Good thing Jazz believed in making his own luck, instead of just accepting what the universe had to offer.
Immediately he began taking stock of the situation.
It was the dead of the night, and he was operating solo, deep in enemy territory. More specifically, he and the Decepticon stranger were in a dark, winding alleyway about 60 steps from the main road. The only source of illumination came from the main street’s lights, which reflected off of broken crystal shards and residual puddles still drying up from the morning’s acid rain storm.
With his back still turned to Decepticon, Jazz checked his disguise — which consisted of his regular frame, plus some remote-control faux-doorwing panels. He maintained his standard black and white colors, albeit inverted from how he normally wore them. Goldenrod and burnt orange flame decals, with an amber visor to match, replaced his red and blue racing stripes.
And as far as Jazz could tell — testing the faux-doorwings with a quick flick — the disguise was holding. Of course it was. It had been designed by Mirage — one of his best undercover operatives — and Sunstreaker — a native Kaonite artist with a perfectionist’s optic. Together they ensured his social etiquette and appearance would keep suspicion of his cover at bay. Unless Jazz did something stupid.
Something stupid, like acting like himself.
So that was exactly what Jazz did. Because in his experience, the best way to surprise the enemy was to act almost exactly how they expected him too. But not perfectly. Because one, regardless of what Mirage and Sunstreaker believed, no Cybertronian was perfect. And two, the whole ‘expect the expected because that’s the ultimate unexpected’ thing only worked as long as they still considered him capable of surprises.
“Yeah,” Jazz admitted, turning to face the other with a sheepish smile. “That obvious?”
“Extremely,” The other mech — a handsome, sleek, Praxian build — nodded. While the mech’s paint job was primarily a mix of black and smokey grey, white accents adorned the Decepticon’s legs and upper arms. Adorning the mech’s pale faceplates was a rose-colored visor, transparent enough that one could easily see red optics underneath. Fashion then, little function.
And, Jazz noted in slight dismay, according to the glyphs surrounding the mech’s insignia, the Decepticon standing before him was an officer. Unfortunately, before Jazz had a chance to make out his exact rank, the officer continued speaking. “You’re breaking curfew. Identify yourself.”
Curfew? The territory reports didn’t mention anything about Kaon having a curfew. That meant it had only been enacted over the last three orns — from the time Mirage pulled out, to when they plopped Jazz in. No worries, if anything that only helped Jazz’s cover story.
“Sorry, Sir! The name’s Ricochet. Just transferred in from Tyrest. Still tryin’ to find my way around...” Jazz let out an uneasy chuckle, flitting on the edge between embarrassed and nervous. Non-threatening. Submissive. Just like a new Decepticon recruit should be, when talking to their superiors.
“Oh? In that case, may I see your papers?”
Even though the mech phrased it as a question, they both knew it was an order. One that had to be complied with immediately.
Fortunately, Jazz had come prepared.
“Right away, Sir,” he said, though he spent a few seconds digging around his subspace for them. It would have been unnatural and suspicious if he handed them over right away during an unscheduled stop.
After he passed over the papers for the Decepticon officer to review, Jazz gestured vaguely to the north. “I’ve been trying to find the Krystar Barracks. That’s where I’m staying, you see, but the maps are so over-detailed it’s hard to find anything!”
That was tip #2 when pretending to be a Decepticon recruit, according to Jazz. Find someone or something else to deflect the blame onto.
Tip #2A, make sure the ‘something else’ was something that real Decepticons already had a gripe with. Overwritten documents when a good percent of the faction was illiterate? Perfect source of blame.
Except… The officer looked unimpressed, as his red optics roved up and down Jazz’s frame, comparing it to the transfer documents. After a few seconds the officer snorted dryly as he returned Jazz’s papers. Then, dusty grey servo beckoned for Jazz to follow.
“Come,” The Praxian ordered, motioning with his servo. “I’ll escort you. Along the way you can tell me exactly how my work confuses you and your fellow recruits.”
Jazz stumbled forward. He’d never admit it if questioned, but his trip wasn’t an act.
Those were his maps?
Which meant…
Oh scrap…
“Commander Prowl…” Jazz’s vents hitched. Pit, the profile drawings did not do the mech justice. “Ya – it’s you. I didn’t recognize —”
Damn it, he should have. Even though the profile drawings hardly did the mech justice — making him too–pointed and ugly — Jazz took pride in his work. In fact, to mildly brag, he was one of the best assassins the Autobots ever had. To not recognize his own slagging target… That was the ultimate rookie mistake. Worse, actually. It was the kind of mistake that would get a Special Operations candidate tossed out of the program, before they even became rookies.
Mirage and Sunstreaker were right. Being Jazz was the equivalent of being stupid. Quick, someone, add his name to a thesaurus.
He had no choice now, but to play along. His cover hadn’t been blown. Yet. Probably. All he had to do was stay under Prowl’s radar. That’d be tough, considering he was literally operating under the mech’s nose, but he had to do it if he had any chance at salvaging this mission.
Time to pull another tried-and-true method from the Decepticon playbook. Babble incessantly.
“That’s really nice of ya, Commander. You sure it’s not too much trouble?” Jazz smiled charmingly. “I mean, you’ve probably got so many other important things to handle. You’re the boss after all. They sure don’t pay ya the big piles o’ shanix for things like this. Give me some verbal directions and I’m sure—”
“Nonsense,” Prowl interrupted, continuing to walk forward. Jazz expected him to adopt a tone of annoyance, but instead Prowl sounded almost amused as he continued. “I am precisely where I am needed.”
Right then, Jazz’s broken sense of danger seemed to fix itself.
Mentally, he took careful inventory of the weaponry he had on him. He hadn’t reached the hidden cache in the safehouse yet, so his gear was painfully little. A standard-issue blaster given to all Decepticons, his personal collection of five perfectly balanced vibro-blades, and a copy of Towards Peace which served both as the Decepticon’s most important piece of propaganda as well as its code-of-conduct manual.
Reaching for any of his hidden knives would cause too much suspicion. Prowl would be on top of him the second he heard Jazz’s armor unlatch. Going for the blaster was similarly less than ideal. Jazz would get one, maybe two shots out of it at best. And even if he managed to shoot Prowl, the chances of it being lethal were slim-to-none. Standard issue blasters were the weapon of choice for most soldiers because of their readily-available quantity, not because of their quality. He’d be lucky to have a quarter of a breem to run before Prowl recovered enough to return fire and or sent reinforcements after him.
So, Jazz resolved to not go for either unless — until — Prowl actively threatened his life.
That left Towards Peace. And Jazz doubted Megatron’s words would work as well for him as a lethal projectile, as they propelled the Decepticon warlord to planet-wide fame.
No worries… Jazz could improvise.
Jazz squeaked, continuing to act like a hapless recruit. “You are?”
If there was one thing all Decepticon leaders liked, it was a willing audience for them to promote their intelligence and importance. In fact, this could work to his favor. He just had to make sure he played his cards right
“Indeed,” Prowl hummed, as they returned to the main street. His posture was formal, dignified, like he was aware of his own importance and unimpressed by it. The Decepticon continued blandly, unbothered by Jazz’s staring.
“The Decepticon Cause is only successful because of the dedicated mecha serving it. Abandoning you in your time of need would be the ultimate disservice to our Cause.”
Suddenly, Jazz was grateful that he hadn’t gone for any of his vibro-blades. Most mechs walked with their arms swinging at their sides, but as Prowl spoke he had crossed his arms behind his back. Despite the slag spewing out of the Decepticon Commander’s mouth about the members of the Decepticon Cause being its greatest asset, Prowl’s body language suggested that he fully anticipated being backstabbed.
Jazz filed that tidbit away, as he jogged after the Praxian. Because, Primus, that mech was deceptively fast. Heh… a deceptive Decepticon. Imagine that.
Jazz’s target happened to be a surprisingly polite Decepticon too. The ones Jazz usually encountered were brutish, itching for battle and energon-shed. Particularly his energon. He had come into this mission expecting to be mugged at some point, although admittedly not until he was a few orns in. Instead, he was getting escorted back home.
“You must be curious about the curfew.” Prowl stated.
Jazz perked up, quickly feigning it as a jolt at being suddenly addressed by his ‘superior’. In reality, he was eager that Prowl was willing to be open to him, even without prompting.
“Uhh… Well, it’s gotta do with the Autobots, doesn’t it? Heard they were pushing into Kalis.” Jazz replied, probing for the other’s reaction.
“...Yes. They have,” Prowl said, slow and measured. His faceplates drew into a frown.
Jazz took careful note of that way the other’s doorwings flicked ever so slightly. Huh, there was a sore spot there.
Jazz knew for a fact that the march into Kalis was done on a whim. Officially, the Autobots had been plotting to take the city for a long time, despite its lack of strategic value. Unofficially, the truth was that Wreckers stationed in Polyhex got bored and decided it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission. The assault on Kalis ended just as quickly as it had begun. It was so abrupt, that Jazz and his team never had enough time to start, much less finish, an intelligence report on the area. The report would probably never be completed now, but Jazz couldn’t deny his curiosity.
Maybe he just got closer to the answers. Despite the smug sense of knowledge, Jazz kept the smirk off his faceplates. A good Decepticon recruit didn’t take enjoyment in the faction’s failures. Unless said failure had to do with Starscream. Then, laughter season was always open.
“—too careful. Hence the necessity of the curfew,” Prowl was saying. “Wouldn’t you agree, Ricochet?” He looked at Jazz like he just shared something of the utmost importance and expected Jazz to understand and reciprocate such sentiments.
Frag.
“Yep, couldn’t agree more, Commander.”
“I’m glad you understand.” Prowl said, mercifully looking away from Jazz once more. Then, keeping one arm still protectively against his back, the Decepticon gestured around them. “Take note of your surroundings. If you know where to look, then you will always find dangerous mecha lurking about.”
They rounded another corner, which led to a dimmer sidestreet with lights only lining one side instead of both like the main road.
As if on cue, there was a shout across the street. And in the distance Jazz watched as a trio of mecha darted into a building.
Jazz watched as Prowl’s optics narrowed underneath his rose-tinted visor. It was the first and only hint of annoyance Jazz got from the Decepticon.
“Aren’t you going to apprehend them?” Jazz found himself asking.
“They’ll be dealt with, just like you,” Prowl promised. “As I said before, the Decepticon Cause is the sum of individual parts. For the great machine to work, undue strain cannot randomly target select parts. Duty and punishment must be distributed fairly.”
And instinctively, Jazz understood. Prowl was spewing more of that faux-peace propaganda, but at the mech’s core, the Praxian truly believed in Megatron’s declarations of fairness and equality among the masses. More than that, Prowl had already set a precedent in taking mercy on him in his hapless recruit guise. Even if Prowl wanted to fight that trio, which didn’t seem likely, based on what little Jazz knew of the mech so far, the Commander’s principles wouldn’t allow him to act. To punish them, and not Jazz would be a compromise of the values he held dear.
“Right. That makes sense. Like I said, I’m new so I’m still figurin’ this all out. But it seems kinda obvious why my squadmates were so excited ‘bout coming here. You make a good Commander, Commander.” Jazz nodded, looking somewhat awed at the Decepticon. Another foolproof ‘How to be a Decepticon for Dummies’ tactic — flattery gets you everywhere.
“I know.” Prowl deadpanned. He didn’t react to the compliment in any way. Somehow, he didn’t even sound arrogant about it. He just accepted it as a fact, and decided to move on.
Unfortunately, the direction he chose to move onto was Jazz’s least favorite form of punishment: measured and analytical small-talk.
“That reminds me. You mentioned my maps were daunting.”
“Now hang on,” Jazz said, holding up a digit. “I didn’t say they were daunting. I said they were over-detailed.”
Hastily Jazz continued, just in case Prowl didn’t take well to being corrected. Lots of precedent in the Decepticon faction there, alright. “Ah… It’s not a bad thing. It’s just…” Jazz fumbled with his servos trying to find the right combination of words that wouldn’t get him melted in some lava pit somewhere. He sighed. “Not efficient.”
Prowl’s optic brow lowered behind his rose-tinted visor. “Explain.”
For a second, Jazz came to the dreadful realization that by explaining himself to Prowl he was actually doing the opposite of his mission to cripple the Decepticon forces. He tried to assuage himself by reasoning that this would help the Autobots too. Well-kept maps helped Decepticon recruits and undercover Autobot operatives alike find their way in foreign, unforgiving lands.
“See… It’s nice to know exactly where everything is,” Jazz said, figuring this was a good time for the classic constructive criticism sandwich. “But see, it can be overwhelming too. Like when you’re new like me, or if you're in a hurry. When ya got time to dig deep and explore it’s great! But Primus forbid the Autobots attack. Do ya want your mechs fumbling because they can’t find where their battle stations are supposed to be between all the unnecessary markings?”
“Certainly not.”
“Exactly, but that’s how it is looking at your maps.”
Prowl pursued his derma in displeasure, and subconsciously Jazz began slowly reaching for his knife. But then the Praxian hummed, and stroked his chin. “Yes. I see… Thank you for explaining the problem to me, Ricochet. I apologize for the oversight.”
“Yeah, sure, no problem,” Jazz glossa ran its course before his processor even left the starting line.
Then Jazz’s processor caught up, and nearly stalled again in shock. “Wait, you’re apologizing?”
Prowl paused, too, also in confusion. “Of course. I made an error. Did Onslaught not do the same?”
“Onslaught?” Jazz frowned. Why were they talking about — He straightened up suddenly. “Oh! Back when I was in Tyrest, you mean.” Obviously, Jazz thought. That where he and his forged papers had said he had come from previously. Where Onslaught was the current commander. Duh. Primus, why was he so off of his game today?
Jazz twitched.
It was one thing to play the part as a bumbling rookie intentionally for a case. It was another thing to actually revert into one on an important mission. Thankfully, Prowl wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.
Although the Decepticon commander might get annoyed the longer Jazz kept him waiting for an answer.
“Uh… No. No, can’t say that he was the apologizing sort. But… I wasn’t exactly around him enough to know. You’re kind of the first ‘Con bigshot I talked to, believe it or not.”
“Oh, I can believe it.” Prowl laughed. The sound was brief but full of mirth, as if Jazz had just told him the funniest joke in the whole world. “Most mecha aren’t so genuinely upfront with Command.”
Right. Genuine.
“Heh,” Jazz rubbed the back of his neck. “Not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult.”
“I see no reason why it cannot be both,” Prowl smirked. “Now. Please tell me more about how my work functions in reality.”
And so Jazz did.
For several breems, Jazz provided suggestions on how to improve the recruit program. Prowl provided explanations, usually in the form of logic, of why he did certain things. Throughout it all the Decepticon commander was unfailingly polite, and to Jazz’s continued astonishment seemed to be actually interested in his ideas. In him.
So when the conversation shifted into troop morale, it didn’t take long for Jazz to start sharing his personal interests. And not just the ones belong to his cover. Because hey, shouldn’t he get to have a little real fun in Decepticon territory if he was going to be spending so much time in it on this and future missions? And who knew when an interpersonal relationship based on half-truths with his ‘fellow’ Decepticons would come in handy? In his line of work, it was bound to be useful sooner or later.
And then, they reached the Krystar Barracks, and Jazz decided to put his theory to the test.
“Ya know you really didn’t have to escort me all this way…” Jazz said, leaning against the doorway frame just so that the space remained just as open, and twice as warm. He flicked his faux-door panels invitingly.
“Of course I did,” Prowl murmured, drawing closer. “It is not safe for recruits to be wandering around at night. As I said, there are always dangerous mechs lurking about if you know where to look. Here,” Prowl said, taking a datapad out of his subspace. He pressed it into Jazz’s servos insistently. “You should take note of them.”
“In that case, why don’t you come inside and help me study?” Jazz offered, remotely sending a command to get his faux-door panels to flutter again. “I can’t imagine it’s any safer for caring Commanders either.”
“It’s not. Fortunately, I enjoy the occasional perilous promenade.” Prowl chuckled as he stepped away, clearly declining Jazz’s offer. As the distance between them grew, Prowl offered another remark. “You should heed my advice, and take care.”
Jazz knew better than to push his luck. He’d have another opportunity soon enough to get close to the Praxian. And… Frankly he was looking forward to it. Prowl was so sharp and precise in his chivalry, that when someone brushed against his wall of spikes, the Praxian became disarmingly smooth. Clearly, it was no wonder that despite many attempts no one had taken out their target yet. Despite Prowl’s tendency to spew false Decepticon propaganda, everything he was saying were actual Autobot values. Someone just had to show him.
And Jazz thought, maybe that someone could be him. If he could befriend the mech, maybe Jazz wouldn’t have to kill the mech after all. It would mean staying in Kaon longer than anticipated, but Jazz could live with that.
“You too.” Jazz smiled genuinely, clutching Prowl’s datapad to his warm chassis as he watched the other leave. He was about to enter the building to get to his quarters, when Prowl paused at the corner.
The Praxian turned, slow and slight, so the streetlight reflected off his visor in a flashing streak. “Afterall, it certainly wouldn’t be very sporting of me, if I didn’t give you a chance before beginning the hunt.”
“Heh, thanks,” Jazz chuckled, reaching for the door handle, but froze right as he touched it.
Wait… What?
Quickly, Jazz turned around, only to catch a final glimpse of elegant doorwings rounding the corner. As the Decepticon commander disappeared into the night, his words echoed in his helm.
There are always dangerous mechs lurking about if you know where to look.
It suddenly occurred to him that while Prowl had indicated rogue Decepticons and the Autobots as a whole, he was suggesting one mech in particular.
Because unlike Jazz, Prowl knew exactly who he was looking at since the moment they first met.
With his spark dropping like an anchor, Jazz fumbled with the datapad Prowl had given him. Sure enough his vents hitched as it revealed his worst fears. Stretched out across the bottom of the screen were the glyphs for ‘saboteur’ and ‘wanted’. And above the words was Jazz’s own visage, in both his normal appearance, and his current disguise.
Oh Primus, he was so screwed.
The datapad shattered on the ground, as Jazz activated his emergency commlink. ::Hey, ‘Raj… About that extraction I told ya I didn’t need…::