1277 days, 7 hours, and 39 minutes.
From the moment his frame hit the cold floor of his cell, Jazz had been keeping track of time. When put into the perspective of a Cybertronian, three and a half years was nothing; the saboteur had known agents that had spent the equivalent of thousands of years as prisoners. But for someone as sociable as Jazz, mere moments spent away from his friends felt like an eternity.
Since his imprisonment, the only mechs Jazz had seen in person were Decepticons. Reflector, Skywarp, Starscream and many more took pleasure in taunting him, and for a while Jazz had the nerve to snap back at them, even though the banter never ended in his favor. The steady stream of entertainment had long since stopped as the inhabitants of the Nemesis gradually grew bored of their captive’s game, but one mech has continued to visit Jazz regularly.
Soundwave had already collected the unique information the saboteur kept within the confines of his processor, but returned daily with a scant ration of energon and an offering of quiet company. With each successive visit, Jazz’s loud attempts at arguments grew softer until he made almost no noise at all. No longer would he reach through the bars of his cell in a fruitless attempt to grab at the mech that he knew was seated far from his grasp, and it was rare that a single threat would fall from his vocalizer. An occasional chuckle marked small landmarks in their mental and verbal conversations, with the saboteur leaning into the cell’s bars as if to goad the Decepticon deeper into whatever game they played for that day. Soundwave was Jazz’s only social outlet, and the telepath made sure that it stayed that way.
The rest of the Autobots had been hard at work putting together plans and gathering information, all for the sake of their lieutenant. Jazz was a vital link in the chain of command, although he saw himself as replaceable when it came to being the head of special operations. Their tenacity was admirable, but their efforts less so. Each attack was warded off with ease now that the Nemesis had acquired upgrades to its defenses, and any attempts to communicate with Jazz were intercepted on every frequency. The Autobots had grown increasingly frustrated over the years, but had not given up since. It was almost a shame that Jazz knew nothing of it.
Jazz was allowed to see images of his friends or hear their voices at Soundwave’s discretion, and the mech always seemed willing to comply to his prisoner’s constant requests to do so. The telepath was thankful he never deleted the old recordings that Megatron viewed as “useless” to their cause. They offered no information and only portrayed past events of Autobots gathering together to laugh or celebrate, but each was carefully reviewed so that it was certain that Jazz was not present and celebrating alongside them; one mistake in playing the wrong footage and the sharp mech would come to question everything, and Soundwave’s “work” would be for naught. Instead, the saboteur was fed a meticulously crafted lie, one that the recordings only reinforced: “You have been forgotten”.
At first, Jazz welcomed the recordings eagerly, much to Soundwave’s chagrin. Oblivious to how old the videos were, he felt that the celebrations he saw were signs of his friends’ confidence in his ability to survive. He was certain they were planning a rescue attempt or establishing a frequency to contact him, and proudly voiced his baseless thoughts to his captor whenever he could. Jazz proclaimed that the faith he had in his friends—and his Prime—was unshakeable, mutual, and eternal.
“Just wait ‘til they get me outta here.” He’d sneer through the bars, “You’ll regret keepin’ me alive, I’ll make sure of it.”
But Soundwave bided his time, carefully granting Jazz’s desires to see and hear his friends until he could feel the other’s pride begin to degenerate into worry and frustration. It was then that he began to offer his recordings without prompting, a poison that the saboteur willingly swallowed. The laughter of his fellow Autobots became a grating noise that only served to taunt Jazz and remind him of his current state: locked away while his friends enjoyed freedom. It came to a point where seeing all of his friends together made Jazz grimace with jealousy. After that, he began to refuse Soundwave’s recordings.
Jazz gradually withdrew, becoming restless and chatty only when he felt Soundwave was drawing near. His behavior was eventually rewarded with repairs to the damages Megatron had inflicted upon his capture, a berth to recharge on instead of the hard floor, then more energon for his daily rations. He was even given a data pad filled with movies and music, but he paid little attention to it. One would say that the greatest gift he could be given was the privilege to function another day behind enemy lines, but Jazz would disagree. After feeling like he had lost so much—his pride, his data, his friends—Jazz would say that he was most thankful to have someone to speak with. He would not say that Soundwave was a friend, but he was someone who was willing to have a conversation, verbal or mental. He felt that he could no longer count on his teammates to come for him, but every day, without fail, Soundwave arrived with a ration and a kind greeting. For that, Jazz was thankful.
Today was…
What was today? All of the days here were similar and they blended together so well; for all he knew, he could have been only locked inside of the brig for the equivalent of a week.
Jazz could no longer recall how many days he had been locked inside of his cell, nor did he know when he stopped counting. It didn’t matter to him anymore. He stood quietly in the corner of the cell closest to the door and waited. The data pad he had been given sat forgotten on his berth, surrounded by Cybertronian glyphs and pictures carved into the walls. Beyond the brig, he could hear voices, but the mech he was waiting for did not speak nearly as much as the ones he was hearing.
Then, he could feel it; a presence that gently announced itself in his processor and gradually grew until the door slid open and a blue mech marched inside. He walked past the cell and Jazz followed as far as he could, stopping only because of the bars separating him from the rest of the brig. Soundwave dragged over a chair and handed Jazz his ration before taking his seat, his visor flashing a bright red as he watched the other drink.
“You left ‘fore I could tell you more ‘bout my neighborhood back on Cybertron!” The black and white mech wiped the energon off of his mouth as he spoke, “One hour ain’t enough for me to tell you everythin’, any chance I can get an extension on that?”
“Request: denied.”
“Worth a shot.” Jazz was used to being refused by now, especially since he had grown bolder with each demand. He brushed it off with a shrug and a laugh before picking up the conversation where they had left off last time.
Soundwave sat at attention and took care to record every word the Autobot shared with him, in addition to processing his emotional responses when he mentioned where he used to live, his former friends on Cybertron, and so on. He could sense traces of sadness and yearning emanating from the other mech, despite the chipper tone he used as he described his past life. It was not often Soundwave interrupted Jazz, but this was an opportunity too promising to pass up.
“Autobot Jazz: longs for Cybertron?” His monotone hid any of his intentions as he quietly asked his question.
“O’course!” The saboteur replied all too quickly, “It’s the whole reason I decided to get involved in this war, remember? I told you this a while ago, Sounders.” Jazz purposely broadcasted feelings of disappointment for the other.
“Memory: retained.” Soundwave assured him before opening a mental link, something that was once painful to Jazz, but now only sent a fleeting feeling of numbness through his processor.
“What are you willing to sacrifice for your Cybertron?” A disembodied voice rasped in Jazz’s mind, but he knew it could only belong to one mech.
“The heck makes you think I got anythin’ to give?”
“Your reputation? Your status? Your belongings?” The voice fell silent before whispering smugly, “Your friends?”
Although no one was explicitly mentioned, Jazz growled. “I told you I ain’t got nothin’. Nothin’ but me.”
“Then what am I?”
For that question, Jazz had no definite answer. The line between the two of them, between friend and foe, had been blurred over the years. He knew that the only thing separating him from the outside world, besides the physical barriers such as his cell and the Nemesis, was Soundwave. The very mech whose attention he yearned for was the reason that he was still alive, although he was unsure why the Decepticon troubled himself by prolonging his captivity.
Soundwave interpreted Jazz’s confusion as progress and withdrew from his mind. This was a slow and frustrating process, but if his calculations were correct, it would be well worth it.
“Autobot Jazz’s motivation: Cybertron?”
“Cybertron’s the reason why I haven’t offed myself yet, stupid.”
The words were uttered with a laugh, but the message they held was grim. Now that Jazz was repaired and had access to the gifts he had received since his capture, Soundwave would have to watch him closely.
Despite this, the Autobot’s answer was satisfying. Their hour together had come to a close and the telepath suddenly stood, a signal for Jazz to be silent now that he no longer warranted attention. It became clear that the shamed prisoner’s dauntless ways had returned when he refused to heed that unspoken order.
“With a li’l effort, I think Cybertron can go back to the way it used to be. I signed my damn life away when I agreed to fight and I still don’t regret it, y’know. I may feel bad in here, but it’s better than bein’ a coward and hopin’ for change that I ain’t willin’ to work for.”
The two mechs stared at each other, their visors obscuring their true expressions. Soundwave was the first to break his gaze away, turning to the wall behind him, which was decorated with instruments of torture that Jazz was able to avoid thanks to the telepath’s graces. He chose what appeared to a be brand from the vast array of devices and moved closer to Jazz’s cell. The saboteur didn’t shrink away, but his thoughts became wrought with concern over the other’s intentions. A familiar numbness overtook him as a mental link was reestablished.
“Do not be alarmed. When have I ever harmed you?”
“You want a detailed list or just a count?” Jazz joked, eying the instrument suspiciously. “What’s that thing?”
“It is… the key to the revival of your—our… home planet.” Soundwave held the brand closer so that the other could see the Decepticon insignia on the end. “You say that you wish to continue your fight. I can fulfill that request, but at a cost.”
“I told you I ain’t got nothin’ but myself no more.”
“That is more than enough.”
“You’ve made Autobots, Neutrals, and even humans suffer.”
“And they have allowed you to suffer.”
For once, Jazz didn’t have a retort. Black hands squeezed the bars of his cell as he stared into that insignia, the representation of what he had been fighting against for eons. He was certain he still disliked the rest of the Decepticon faction, although Soundwave was an exception surrounded by uncertainty.
“I don’t wanna work for that loony ol’ boss of yours.” Jazz revealed one of few reservations he had across their mental link.
“Do not worry. You will work for me. Bear in mind that your work is also for Cybertron.”
Sensing the other’s hesitance, the telepath released his grasp on the other’s mind for a moment to allow him to think, but he didn’t have to wait too long. The fury that had been latent within the saboteur manifested into the answer Soundwave sought.
“Get me outta this cell and fire that thing up.” Jazz growled lowly as he rattled the bars, “I wanna fight.”
