White Elephant
Down down the rabbit hole we go, what’s at the bottom? Somewhere safe someone would hope.
The facility continues to be buried under snowfall, everybody seems worried about the wrong things and Jazz gets desperate.
Edit: Nearly forgot. Check out @keferon for coming up with the au and the incredible art they’ve made for it!
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It was close to five in the morning, seventeen hours after Jazz fell ill, twenty nine hours after Jazz had returned, that the fever finally broke.
Crumbled almost.
Prowl watched the spy’s temperature slowly sink lower, like a failing ship, until at last it gave out completely.
The spy remained still, until the slow flexing pattern from the night before returned. Except this time it was more detailed. Individual fingers curling and uncurling. Shoulders were rolled and his head lolled from side to side in a way that almost looked like stretching. Testing.
Calibrating.
The behavior was added to his list.
A few hours later, Prowl was alerted by proximity sensors that Jazz was finally moving in a more conscious way. The pressure in a few nearby pipes lowered as Prowl descended by his side to greet him.
The humans eyes opened and, for just a moment, Jazz’s face remained blank.
No, not entirely blank. Jazz was looking at him. But like he was looking at something built into the wall. Like Prowl was scenery.
Silently, Prowl held eye contact until Jazz returned the favor. It took a second.
“Good morning, how are you feeling?” Tentatively Prowl reached out.
Glancing at the touch, Jazz finally broke into a proper expression, face splitting into a showman’s smile. “Better. Much better.”
The spy scooted up the bed until he was sitting upright and looked at the Prowl like he was expecting something from him.
Blinking curiously, Prowl hazarded a guess, “Do you feel well enough to eat?”
“I think I can keep something down now.” He replied with the same smile and with a hint of pride.
Somewhat mollified, Prowl summoned the usual and settled into their morning routine.
Breakfast was..
It was awkward.
Several times Prowl would initiate some opportunity for light hearted banter, set up for a flirt or a joke, only for Jazz’s half of the song to fall a little flat. He wasn’t saying anything wrong necessarily, Prowl would never expect him to perform at a relationship, but there was a missing warmth to the conversation.
If anything, it felt more like a disinterested game of trivia.
Interrupting himself, Prowl asked again, “Are you sure you feel better?”
Sipping a glass of water, Jazz looked appropriately concerned, “What makes you say that?”
Prowl was about to answer, didn’t know how and looked away.
From prior experience, he’d been expecting Jazz to reach out then. To touch his face and reassure Prowl that he was “fine” in the way that meant “I can handle it but I’d be better with your help.”
Hell, he’d even settle for Jazz’s usual bravado and casual treatment of his own life.
Instead, he heard a sigh, “I do feel better. Better than before..” Jazz trailed off, looking up at the ceiling before closing his eyes.
He rolled his head back over to Prowl, opening his eyes with an apologetic smile. “With the mission, the party and the fever, I think I just got a little burnt out is all. It’ll pass once I get into the groove of things.”
“Okay.” Prowl said, even as fluorescent lights whined nearby.
Swinging his feet off the bed, Jazz moved to stand, “Speaking of, I should get going back to the others. Make sure everyone knows you didn’t kill me.”
A couple hallways nearby constricted slightly, Prowls avatar flinching back.
A moment of observation and Jazz quickly held up his hands in surrender, “Kidding! Kidding. Just a bad joke. I know you’d never actually kill me. Would you Prowl?”
“No.” He said evenly, allowing Jazz exit from the room. “I wouldn’t.”
Jazz hummed, content with the affirmation. Before wincing very slightly and massaging one temple as he walked down the hall.
“Is something still wrong?” Prowl asked Jazz, trailing behind him on their way to the rec room.
“It’s nothing that matters,” he said through barely ungritted teeth, “My head just feels a little loud today.”
—————
FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU.
Jazz turned up the mental volume controls to eleven. He pulled up memories of every metal concert, every marching band and every noise he’d ever heard Wheeljack make and tried to concentrate on the sounds so hard it should make his skull vibrate from pure placebo.
Anything to drown out what he was hearing.
Anything to stop himself from thinking about what he was hearing.
Jazz held out as long as he could. Fucking god he tried. But at some point he was so numbed and exhausted he couldn’t tell if he was still holding the door shut. Only to wake up on the wrong side looking through his own eyes like a keyhole.
The virus had his body.
He couldn’t even control his own breathing anymore, like he was a brain dead patient hooked up to an iron lung.
Panicking without any physiological response was an absolute mindfuck of an experience. His stomach didn’t flip, his heart didn’t beat any faster, every muscle was relaxed in total involuntary calm.
And then he felt his own mouth open and start saying that shit to Prowl.
The virus, Bitchmaster, Ricochet, whatever, had changed the longer it spent in Jazz’s head. At first, he thought Ricochet was breaking character when it stopped to taunt him. Now, Jazz suspected the virus was actually building a character.
And it was starting to sound way too much like him.
You can make it better ya know.
It scrapped at his brain like a dog at a ditch.
Open up.
Jazz wasn’t out of the fight yet. If the virus still wanted things from him, then that was something he still had to fight over. To fight with.
For every inch of ground he lost, Jazz gained a little more knowledge on how Ricochet functioned.
So far the biggest revelation was that while Rico might be in his head, the virus didn’t have a way to go through Jazz’s memories. He got the computer but not the keyboard.
Unfortunately, there was this tricky little thing in psychology called a White Elephant.
Do not think of a white elephant.
Resist having any thoughts about a white elephant. Do not think of its wide toes or its long nose, do not picture its bristly tail or its hide so pale. But most especially do not imagine how dark its eyes must be, set against the backdrop of an all. white. elephant.
Concentrate.
Block it out.
Focus.
. . .
Did you think about a white elephant?
Yeah.
There were quite a few things Jazz was trying not to think about right now. His friends, his secrets, his habits. His friend’s secret habits.
Jazz had a lot of elephants.
So of course, Ricochet walked right into the room with a whole herd of them.
Strutting into the rec room, a good dozen or so Autobots were milling around, including the big man himself who was shaking off some melting snow from the collar of his jacket.
His eyes instantly brightened seeing Jazz up and about after yesterday’s emergency. Several other people picked up on the shift in energy and looked over, a little chorus of cheers and “welcome back!” at his return.
For his part, Rico did a pretty good job of smiling convincingly, even adding a little bow with a flourish like he was a magician reappearing on stage. “Thank you, thank you, good to be back everyone!”
A wall of muscle and military surplus clothing closed in fast and Jazz was crushed into a hug. Something hard and blocky pressed against his ribs and automatically Jazz clocked what it was.
He’d just come in from outside. Orion still had weapons on him.
Breakfast yesterday replayed in his mind and Jazz thrashed against the interior of his skull.
Fire arm on his left hip, survival knife on his thigh- stop stop stop thinking stop thinking.
“Jazz! I’m so glad you’re okay! Prowl informed us you had woken up but I didn’t think you’d be walking around already.” If Rico had intended to murder the leader of the Autobots, that plan was temporarily obstructed by the sheer restraining power of an OP bear hug.
Still, he could feel deft fingers slip a knife from the leader of the Autobots sheath and into one of the saboteur’s pockets.
Jazz had another thought.
If you kill him now, that’s the most damage you could possibly do. Everyone will know immediately and you’ll be taken down.
He felt Rico pause, inspecting his brain and finding the surface of Jazz’s plan easily.
Buying time for yourself?
More like a wager. If you take your time, there’s a chance you could fuck up and they’d figure you out. But with enough time, you could set this place up to kill us all at once.
A memory, a story, that Prowl had told him once was allowed to surface. It was about a man who was betrayed, then avenged by the very machine he was slaughtered to create. It was a story with no survivors.
Like tasting a vintage wine, Ricochet mulled over the concept.
While he didn’t answer Jazz directly, Ricochet did lift his arms to return OP’s hug. For now, the knife remained in his pocket.
Wheezing, he apologized, “Sorry that Prowl ruined the surprise, I’ll have to sneak around him next time.”
Placing him back down, Optimus replied, “I asked him to let me know. That said, I don’t think you should be dangling around the catwalks for now. We still don’t know what caused that reaction and I think we’d all feel better if you stayed where we can find you if something happens again.”
At the word catwalks, Jazz felt Ricochet digging around his brain. It felt like shoving fingers into a dogs mouth to force them to spit something out, except instead of some piece of plastic, it was Jazz’s subconscious map of the facility’s back corridors.
It was just hallways, it was just the hallways not- the opening to In The Fire and The Flames got put on blast before Jazz could think of anything more important. Regardless, Jazz felt Ricochet stick a mental doorjamb into the thought to pry open further whenever the spy slipped up again.
His face was screwed up in concentration and for what felt like the fifth time that morning, someone asked if Jazz was okay. Rico responded with a prepared tired smile, “I’m okay Optimus, still got a headache from yesterday is all.”
There was the tiniest quirk of his head that Jazz didn’t notice, and that he didn’t think about. OP slowly nodded, “Oh, well if you’re not feeling well still then maybe you should go back to bed.”
Ricochet casually agreed, “Yeah, I’ll do that. Just wanted to stretch my legs for a bit.” Before wandering away. Watching him leave, OP made no move to stop him and said nothing more on the matter. He watched, almost said something and then was pulled away by someone asking about work.
Soon enough, “Jazz” was wandering about the facility.
Due to the storm, Prowl had reorganized the primary ant farm of the Autobots base to a bit lower underground, where the temperature was more stable. And because most people weren’t Jazz, there was plenty of signage for Rico to find his way around.
He felt him counting cameras, angles and coverage. He found a laptop, not supplied by Prowl but one of the few that the Autobots managed to hold onto before coming here. Swiping it, Rico hit the mental door wedge like a sledgehammer and Jazz’s minds eye flashed with images of the facilities “sneak away” spots. Ricochet dug up Jazz’s knowledge of numb points, elements of the facility that could be broken or manipulated without Prowl feeling it, and pried open a junction down a auxiliary hall.
The difference in air pressure made his ears pop and a cool rush of damp cavern air met his nose.
The drop was immense. When Jazz told the Autobots that Aperture was “mostly underground” the general assumption was that it was a series of tunnels and caves carved into solid, stationary rock.
The reality was that at any given time, their lunch halls, bedrooms, and offices were actually hanging a few thousand meters above the ground in a cave larger than the manhattan skyline. Like bunch of piñatas.
Fun visual.
Tucking the laptop into his waistband, Ricochet pulled on Jazz’s muscle memory to scale the mechanical arms holding together the illusion of a solid building. Reaching the top, Ricochet sat down and opened it up.
Password Required.
No.
C’mon. You know it will happen.
I’m not thinking about it.
A prickle of sweat and a sickly sensation of cold drifted over his body. Ricochet tried another method in conjunction with the threat of fever and began to inspect the object intently.
He turned the laptop over in his hands, some very faded and scratched up stickers denoted it as Smokescreens. The teams on board psychologist, who would have psych files on every single person within the Autobots command.
Jazz knew the password.
Of course he knew the password.
It wasn’t even hard, he just had to lie in a vent behind Smokescreens desk and wait for him to put in- stop stop stop stop stop.
He could hear the keys clacking, recall each letter only appearing for a second before turning into an asterisk.
And it was such a stupid password too.
W!ld C@rd5. Really?
I tried so hard to get him to change it man.
No longer locked out, Ricochet had unfettered access to an alphabetized black book of everyone’s personal demons.
Arcee: “Struggles with guilt over the deaths of civilians and teammates. Feels as though she could have prevented them and will sometimes develop a deep frustration with the situation and herself. So far, physical activity such as exercise, sparring, or shooting work best as outlets for pent up frustration.”
Blaster: “Exhibits regret over not continuing his radio career over joining the Autobots. Quick to reassure that he feels he made the right choice, but struggles with feeling disconnected from his old life. I’ve suggested he reach out to others who share his hobbies and try to get back into them when possible.”
Bluestreak: “Session went over time again. Has developed a very strong emotional attachment to the autonomous A.I. known as Prowl. When asked how this developed, Bluestreak explained as far as, “He reminds me of my brother.” Given Bluestreak’s history with loosing loved ones, this may be an unhealthy projection or substitution. However, Prowl appears to reciprocate this relationship (I think?) and Bluestreak has become more confident and relaxed since this development.”
On and on they went, digging through every dirty little secret. Jazz literally, physically couldn’t look away. Not that Ricochet really needed him anymore. Yet the virus still skimmed his impulsive thoughts on every name that came up, gleaning additional snippets of context and Jazz’s personal opinions on everybody’s issues.
Until finally, they reached the J’s.
Jazz: I know you’re reading this, so I’ll spell it plainly: You are just as bad as Optimus, except Optimus isn’t a hyper vigilant assassin who can apparently only relax when surrounded by a living building that sometimes decides to kill people.
Maybe it shouldn’t be me, but Jazz, find someone you can open up to and let them in. Not every battle can be fought alone, especially in our own minds.
P.s. Stop changing my fucking password.
Let someone in huh?
It didn’t sting to read the first time, more than anything it felt like being reminded of a bruise. At least this time Jazz could scoff at his newly found vindication on the subject. Of everyone on base, why did irony have to pick him to play with?
You were the perfect candidate.
Checking the time, Ricochet scrolled through the most important remaining profiles, Optimus, Mirage, Ratchet, Wheeljack, before shutting the laptop. Picking up a few more threads of Jazz’s own mental notes on the figures in the process.
In every way.
The collector of secrets, elusive yet charismatic, a masterful athlete and skilled saboteur. He had all the knowledge and all the skills to make dominoes out of every person here.
Jazz was a skeleton key.
He felt his own chest laugh, and then he was swinging over the edge.
All too soon, he’d slipped back into the facility, returned Smokescreens laptop and began to sink his hooks into the people Jazz called friends.
The next couple days were torture.
He was playing them. He was playing all of them and sneaking away and back again to set up something that Ricochet wasn’t sharing. No one questioned a thing because everything could be answered by either “Oh that’s all normal for Jazz” or “Jazz got really sick and he’s still recovering.”
Optimus actually praised him, praised Jazz for asking for help when he wasn’t well. It made him so damn happy but at the same time Jazz could see the stress building in those eyes. Ricochet could bring back the fever whenever he wanted, so there was no way to call out Jazz as “faking” being ill either.
The closest someone got to catching on that something was fundamentally wrong with Jazz was when Elita and him were walking down the hall and one of Prowls claws swooped down to snatch him. Ricochet dodged, and Elita saw the not so friendly look on Jazz’s face.
But before Jazz could pop the confetti and middle fingers, Rico recovered.
“Sorry Prowl! Feeling a little queasy today. Probably best not to test the sprinkler function.” He called up while patting his stomach.
There was a beat of silence, before Prowl curtly responded, “Understood.” And retracted the arm.
Wheeling on him, Elita hissed, “What the hell was that?!”
Quickly walking down the halls to another camera blind spot, Jazz beckoned Elita closer with a well constructed veneer of calm panic.
Whispering conspiratorially, Rico leaned in, “I think Prowl is glitching.”
Matching his volume, Elita dug for answers, “What do you mean? Did something happen?”
Rico took the opening and ran, “Remember back when we had to replace the morality core? Well I don’t think it was a perfect fit. Ever since I came back hurt from that mission, Prowl’s been obsessed with me when we’re alone. It’s starting to get freaky Elita.”
“Freaky and obsessed is the status quo for you two.” She muttered.
“Not like this.” Ricochet pushed. “I’m still working on it but I’ll need help. Can I trust you to have my back?”
Elita stared him down for four solid seconds. Like blowing glass, Jazz felt hope growing larger and larger, only to shatter into pieces.
“Jazz, I’m going to help you. I promise.”
She believed him. Everyone believed him.
Nobody knows me.
Nobody ever will.
The world got dark and vacuous and Jazz couldn’t feel anything but air. He didn’t know where he was, couldn’t think of how he got here, just that Ricochet was gone.
It was empty but it was free.
What is this?
Is this good or bad?
..does Ricochet know about this?
Or is it me?
And like speaking of the devil, Jazz felt something disgustingly familiar reach down for him. The difference was staggering, like re-entering a room and realizing it stank of gas the whole time, Jazz was forcibly dragged back into consciousness.
The shush of running water filled his ears and Jazz found his hands gripping the edge of a bathroom sink.
Locking eyes with his reflection, Rico snarled from the mirror.
Don’t do that again.
Watch me.
Maybe it was his minds last defense brought on by continuous psychological distress, but Jazz started blacking out. Not physically, at least. Rico was in total control of his body, but the virus got pissed whenever Jazz wasn’t mentally present.
The threat of fever wasn’t effective, as Ricochet needed to be able bodied to complete whatever he was trying to do. So Jazz worked at disappearing on purpose.
Disassociating like this was probably bad for him, but if Ricochet couldn’t readily rake through his memories, then it meant Jazz had found something to slow him down.
He had to, even if it wasn’t pleasant. The time skips were dizzying and the emptiness inside his head was a staticky kind of numb. Plus, if Rico got somewhere away from the others, he could concentrate on fishing around for Jazz’s psyche. Dragging him back to his personal horror movie.
On the third or fourth dive, Jazz started to notice there was a kind of physical space down there. Or at least the hallucination of one. Walls. Rooms. Stairwells.
Places to hide.
With nothing left for him to control in the waking world, Jazz slipped out the back of his mind and dug down deep. And deeper.
And started to build.
—————
Elita One entered the rec room like a low pressure wave before a storm. Several soldiers straightened their posture and a couple of the more anxious types started making themselves look busy. But Elita wasn’t here for them. She only had eyes for one particular Autobot.
Evidently, Optimus Prime was of a similar mind. He popped up at Elita’s arrival and locked eyes with her immediately.
Amongst a crowd of subordinates, she watched their leader loudly and obviously fake cough while gesturing to the nearest supply closet with a toss of his head. Immediately doing it again when Elita scrunched her eyes closed.
The crowd around him boggled like a shoal of goldfish seeing a butterfly flap underwater.
Putting on the mask of a full metal commander, Elita did not break down snorting over Optimus’s attempt at subterfuge. Striding forward with a purpose, Elita addressed the gathered with a straight face, “I need to borrow our leader for a moment.”
Dragging him away to the second nearest supply closet.
Swiftly entering and shutting the door, the two turned on each other, “There’s something wrong with Jazz.”
In the beat of silence where they registered that they’d both said the same thing, a disembodied third voice entered the conversation as the small room rattled and shook, getting pulled away from the rest of the building. “Well that certainly expedites things. One moment. Oh and hold on.”
At Prowls suggestion, the two leaders immediately braced against the sides of the closet, watching as a few loose items rolled out the now open side of the box and plummeting into the fog below.
Optimus tried for diplomacy while gripping both Elita and the seams of the walls like a petrified raptor, “Could you possibly close the box next time? Or maybe install a couple seat belts?”
“I already know too much about what happens in these closets and I am not facilitating anything more interesting.” Prowl replied with a shudder that traveled through the walls.
When the closet did finally stop moving, Optimus and Elita held their entanglement until the new door the closet now connected to whooshed open, and they could pretend to be on solid ground.
A voice instantly filled the silence, “So when Prowl asked if I could do that I asked him what the upper limit range was on the gun and all he said was “The Moon” so I’m guessing it just goes for forever. Which is honestly great! But also I’m kinda used to subconsciously accounting for gravity so I’ve been trying to think of it more like taking a really tiny picture.”
Bluestreak was happily chattering away to his captive audience of one Mirage, who was attempting to hide inside his own hat from how low the spec ops agent had it pulled. The two autobots occupied two of four chairs facing a wall made currently inactive screens in an otherwise empty room.
Despite that, they all knew five people were present in this room.
Elita was the first to recover and disentangle herself from her partner, Optimus following close behind with a clatter of brooms and boxes getting kicked. The pair stumbled out of the closet to somebody wolf whistling, but upon looking up Mirage had vanished and Bluestreak was wide eyed pointing at his last known location.
“Not important and not a word.” Elita cut the subject off before it could be spoken.
“Please, can any of you tell us what this is about? We were having a very private but important discussion about Jazz a moment ago.” Optimus beseeched for diplomacy.
As if he’d said the magic words, the screens illuminated, showing the title page of a slide show presentation in crisp black and white with red highlights.
“Something Is Wrong With Jazz.”
“A Collection of Material Evidence and Reputable Observations assembled over the course of several days. Proving beyond reasonable doubt that the Autobot known as Jazz is being mentally influenced by the Decepticons via some form of virus based Mind Control.”
Organized by Prowl.
“Please take a seat. We have much to discuss and limited time to do so.” Prowl requested as Elita and Optimus quickly took their seats.
Once his audience was seated, the robotic heart of the facility calmly announced, “Jazz is going to attempt to kill us all within the next eight hours, and we are going to see that he succeeds.”
—————————————————
Accusing a dude whose job is to lie of not being who they say they are is a shot you only take with ample ammunition. And oh boy has Prowl been stock piling.
Welcome to the Dream Team.
Operation: Saving Jazz from himself.
-SSTP
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