Flashback - Switching Sides - Closed

Jazz, magnetized to the chair like he was, felt the stomp of a military-grade frame transmitted through the floor as much as heard it. The sound of weapons (big weapons to go with that heavy gait) charging and spinning up didn't exactly sound like fun coming his way, but, like everything he'd encountered since showing up on the Autobots' doorstep, it wasn't unexpected.

Given that the mech that came through the door was Ironhide, neither was the no-nonsense greeting.

Jazz had pulled every bit of info he'd had clearance for before he'd disappeared. That included spec ops' dossiers on Prime's followers, including the mech who was currently towering over him, filling the very small room with the crawling hum of a very annoyed EMF.

Ironhide: Autobot, loyal officer, weapons specialist, all around rough-and-ready slagger that no Decepticon with a scratch of self-preservation wanted to meet on the battlefield.

Or in a tiny interrogation room, either. Ironhide wasn't an interrogator, per se. He was, however, the kind of bot Jazz'd send in if he wanted a target shook up a bit.

Jazz kind of hoped that the Autobots' version of shaking up was a bit gentler than the Decepticon one. Not that it mattered. He'd thrown in his lot, after all. But still, he'd rather not get beat up for it, all considered.

Jazz tilted back his helm to try to keep optic contact, keeping his usual smart-aft tendencies firmly under wraps, keeping his field open and calm. "No game. I'm defecting. Nothing more, nothing less."

It was funny. For once he was telling the truth, and he was going to have a Pit of a time convincing anyone of it.

Jazz almost laughed but figured there was no sense in riling the mech any more than he had to. First, his numbers were off by way more than threefold. And second...why should he care? Oh, please....

He kept his vocalizer calm, reasonable even. "Well, if you want to talk numbers, I have some. Seven thousand and ninety-two, the number of next gen plasma cannons from Sul Praxa that Megatron is having smuggled right under your noses right now. Thirteen, the number of spec ops mechs the 'cons have over you as of today. Three, the number of moles you've got in this facility alone. One, the number of assassins that are already in place to take a shot at Prime when he heads to Crystal City next joor. Seven, the number of ways I could have entered this facility completely unnoticed and made my way wherever I'd wanted. And TWENTY-SEVEN, the number of security tweaks you really need to make RIGHT NOW to have any hope of keepin' mechs like me out of Iacon, and that's just what I noticed today."

He spread his fingers in the magcuffs. "Why should you care? Because I've got info your spec ops isn't in place to get, and you need it. You need more mechs like me." He shifted back in his chair, putting a touch of apology into his voice. "Not that you're gonna trust anything I say until someone's scrubbed through my helm. But hey, you asked."

Jazz could HEAR the warrior holding himself back, could hear it in the whine of clenched servos, of locked joints, of involuntary movement forcibly stilled.

Yeah, Jazz thought, if you like that, you're gonna really love this.

Jazz shrugged. "Sure, if you want to play it that way. I laid clues that I was heading to the Polyhex base, but not sure if they bought it. After all, made more sense to ME to come all the way here. Guarantee you, though, that every agent's gotten orders to terminate me. Some of 'em orders to terminate me regardless of their own cover. After all, like you mentioned, I'm a bad mech. Plenty of reasons any random Autobot'd feel obligated to take a shot at me."

Jazz considered. "How long? Probably a cycle. Fender's in transport maintenance, and since I didn't come in on a transport, he wouldn't have seen me yet. Icepick's out on recon, definitely not a problem yet." He made optic contact with Ironhide. He'd rather see the blow coming, all considered. "Firestorm, though, is probably waiting for you to leave. Probably working on getting herself assigned to guard duty, if she hasn't already."

Firestorm was good. In a stand-up fight, he was better. When she could open the door and shoot him point-blank with no chance for him to dodge, though, it was a little trickier.

Like dealing with an angry Ironhide, really.

Jazz was expecting the hit. He expected quite a few of them, really. No way did he expect to be able to defect, after bein' in 'Con spec ops for more vorns than he cared to think about, without getting roughed up. He'd taken it into account when he'd made the decision. There were a lot of Autobots who had reason to take a shot at him, lethal or not: friends, lovers, teammates of 'Bots he'd killed or captured or tortured. Or mechs like Ironhide. Who just weren't gonna be happy knowing that they'd been taken in.

Jazz could've wished that the first interrogator would be someone not personally friends with one of the deep cover agents. Someone not likely to feel personally betrayed. Someone not likely to throw a table at him and make his spark casing creak with the weight of Primus on top of it.

But hey, he'd established already that the universe hated him. Why break up the streak?

He'd expected the hit, but it didn't keep his frame from trying to up combat routines when the table flew at him. The urge to dodge spun uselessly through his systems, weapons gone or deactivated and his limbs still cuffed to the chair. Not that he couldn't have been out of the cuffs in about six kliks, but he was being GOOD. He was letting this happen. Show of good faith, right? Let the 'Bots rough you up. It'll make 'em feel better.

Jazz hit the ground, the chair digging painfully into his backstrut, and Ironhide's weight didn't make it any better. For one klik, Jazz was afraid that the warrior wouldn't stop. Just keep leaning until Jazz's spark casing popped. But he didn't. He stopped.

Jazz reset his optics, his audials, everything that'd gotten rattled, and fought hard not to laugh. Laughing right now would not be a sound tactical move. "Sure. I'll tell you everything I know. But what'll you believe? Their cover stories? I know 'em all, but I coulda just researched those to set them up. Icepick came in from a Polyhexian unit that he said was decimated. We faked his credentials to put him in that unit after it'd been wiped out. He vouched for Firestorm when she came in as a Neutral. She vouched for Fender when he came in with the Altihex refugees. It's easier to get someone in than you'd like. War's too chaotic. Can't know every mech. 'Cons have the same problem."

He ventilated against the pain in his back, in his chest. "Can't prove to you I'm tellin' the truth. Not a word of it I couldn't be lyin' about, we both know that. And all of 'em are good agents. Not a speck on 'em that'll give 'em away. S'not like they keep their insignia in a drawer."

He would have shrugged but, yeah, 'Bot on his chest. "Could catch 'em reporting. Next one'll be Icepick, next decacycle. He drops his datachips at the furthest point of whatever patrol he's on. Someone watches for him and picks 'em up. Firestorm's rotation isn't until an orn from now. Fender's piggybacking encrypted updates through the main comm relays. Have an engineer start nosing around, see if Fender'll give himself away."

He tilted his head up to meet Ironhide's optics, and Primus was that the coldest blue he'd ever seen. "And like you said, could let one of 'em take a shot at me. Kinda like it if you didn't let 'em kill me, though."

Jazz could HEAR the tension in the room shift. Slowly. Like Cybertron's own struts settling. Like the hum of Ironhide's systems, reverberating in an aggressive hum down his leg and translating to Jazz's own armor, down to his internals, frag Ironhide was a big slagger. It was only emphasized when Ironhide picked up him and the chair one-handed as casually as Jazz would have picked up a cube.

Jazz let himself be mechhandled where Ironhide wanted him, looked down at the datapad and thought, Finally. We're getting somewhere.

He kept his voice steady, vorns of being a Decepticon, a GOOD Decepticon, making it inconceivable to show weakness, even to a mech who could crush him with one hand. ESPECIALLY to a mech who could crush him with one hand. It was too early in this game to be showing fear. There was a lot of intimidation and threats and mechs with grudges to nurse to deal with before this was through.

Jazz obediently popped a line out of his wrist, plugging it into the datapad. "Whatever you want." He checked the 'pad, visor flickering as he started the upload. "Giving you that...and index of the rest. Full dump'll take more than this 'pad's got memory." He added in a bit of Apologetic to his Perfectly Cooperative voice. "Kinda ripped as much as I could out of the 'con mainframe kernel on my way out. Not that everything there's gonna be useful, but I'm no tactician."