Ep. 0.5 - Stepping Up - Closed

Jazz had heard Optimus' engine rumble and the Matrix's sweet harmonics converging on him for awhile, but hadn't hastened them on. He'd been having a good time talking with everyone. Especially the humans. He'd have to chat some more with them. They were young and fragile, but already showing the beginnings of the complexity their species was capable of.

Jazz turned, smiling. "Hey, boss bot. Been looking all over for you. Figured it was time to get back to business, eh?" He walked back to Optimus' side. "Not that my intel'll be too overuseful, I imagine. I hit a lot of dead space heading to Earth, so it's been...eh. Vorn or so since I had anything fresh. It's all yours, though."

Jazz pulled a datachip out of the port in his wrist. That'd been another reason to wander: gave him time to copy everything over to the chip. He presented it to Optimus with a flourish.

Jazz quirked a wry smile. "Yeah, it was--" lonely. horrible. crazy-making. "--about how you'd expect. Nothing I'd want to repeat, that's for sure." He didn't need to say anything more. Pit, the datachip would give Prime all he wanted to know about it. Long, long stints of nothing interspersed with fits of violence. It'd been over a hundred vorn since Jazz had seen a friendly mech.

Jazz perked slightly at Optimus' question, considering it honestly. The itch to bask in his family's fields was still strong, but no longer a moral imperative. So long as he wasn't going to be away for rotations at a time, he'd be fine. Especially since there were mechs here, things to do, distractions to be had.

"I'd say so, sir. I'm still catching up on the intel here, and to be honest I need Ratchet to yell at me about how much maintenance I couldn't do out in space, but I'm up for light duty. Give me a rotation or two, and I'll be good as new and ready to--" he dropped into Ironhide's accent with a grin "--kick tailpipe!"

A...he...WHAT? Jazz kept the filter on his vocalizer by about one bolt.

He'd never much cared for climbing the ranks because really, what was the POINT? He'd worked to get where he could actually do what he was best at and then comfortably stayed there with no moves toward officer training at all. Spec Ops was a specialist position, with its own rank structure. They had their own hierarchy and their own officers, and it was only the highest of spec ops officers who got anywhere near the general Autobot command structure. Jazz had never bothered to seek to go any higher than Unit Agent. High enough to work alone, to lead a team, to do whatever needed to be done, but not high enough that he had to call the shots.

There was a reason for that.

And here the Prime had just destroyed all his careful responsibility-dodging by cutting across all the different rank trees with a field promotion. Cutting him all the way to--Jazz double-checked the mainframe's roster--slag, FOURTH IN COMMAND not two planetary rotations since he arrived.

Well, PIT.

"Optimus...I...." There were a lot of ways he could finish that sentence. I don't think I'm qualified or I just got here and don't feel comfortable taking command or I don't WANT to lead or...

...I can't handle it, Optimus. I know you think I can. I know you WANT to think I can. But I never took officer training because I knew I'd just be playacting at doing the right thing....

Jazz ruthlessly cut down his own turmoil. He was very, very afraid that Optimus wouldn't be dissuaded, but he had to try. "Optimus, I...to be honest I'm afraid I'd be a terrible officer."

The reminder that he was far from alone in the command structure let Jazz calm...somewhat. Still, the idea that Jazz was two skilled but highly targetable mechs away from...no, Jazz didn't want to think about that.

Jazz partitioned his processor threads ruthlessly. Over HERE the surprise. Over THERE the spec ops imperative to not be noticed. Over THERE--in the INCINERATOR--the fear and inadequacy, thank you.

None of them were reasons to not give Optimus what he needed. And he NEEDED officers. Needed bots he could count on among all the new and untried refugees and half-younglings. Jazz could hear that need in stressed systems and the creak of too-tight joints.

No, none of his hang-ups were reasons to say no. Which was why he didn't. Hadn't. Wouldn't.

Didn't keep him from feeling obligated to point out that it was a bad slagging idea, though.

Jazz turned, venting a sigh, leaning his back to the wall. "I'm not saying no, Optimus, just reminding you of who we're talking about here. You remember the talk we had, on Velis? All that still applies. I'm not a good Autobot. I'm not even a particularly good mech. I've got holes in my morals you could drive your alt through. I patch 'em over by asking myself what YOU would do, but that doesn't always work."

Jazz gestured at the chip in Optimus' wrist. "Check the reports and LOOK. Out in the black, I got convinced that by the time I got anywhere useful everyone'd be dead. When I heard that Sunny and Sides were on the captured-presumed-dead list, the brakes came off. The next two 'Con emplacements I found I took out. All of 'em. No survivors. I picked 'em off in ones and twos, seein' how many I could kill before the alert went up. Then I just started leavin' the bodies where they could find 'em. No real reason, just to make 'em afraid. The last survivor I'd let run around for a rotation or two, let 'em think they'd been spared, just to see it all crash back into their optics 'fore I killed 'em. An' ya know what? I ain't sorry."

Jazz shrugged. " 'n that was just old friends. That wasn't 'Hide or Blue or YOU. Ya want a reason not t'give me command? That's it."

The Kaon had seeped back into his voice, while the emotion had seeped out. Jazz could hear it, cringed internally at it, reluctant to show what he was mostly sure was his true face...but also hearing the echo of their conversation on Velis.

Look at me, Optimus, he'd said, long ago and galaxies away. This is me, under the masks. You sure this is what you want?

Whatever face you choose....

Jazz could only stand there for a long moment, spark spinning. Then his frame slumped, tension running out of him.

That. Slag like THAT was how Optimus had earned his loyalty. Jazz wasn't sure how he did it. It was like the Prime had parts of Jazz's spark Jazz didn't even know existed and Optimus kept GIVING THEM BACK TO HIM.

Jazz shook his head, hand reaching up and out to lay on Optimus' arm, his field leaking utterly inappropriate-for-Primely-company resonances of exasperation and gratitude and bewildered love.

Jazz patted the battered plating under his hand. "I don't understand you. I used to think you were just that good. Now I think you're just that crazy." He vented a resigned sigh. "I just hope I don't disappoint."

Stepping back, Jazz shook himself, plating flaring and clacking down again in a wave, the mask (one of the easy ones, worn to familiarity with time and use) going back on. "All right, then. So, any place in particular you want me to start? I mean after I get the place up to spec ops code and all."

Lieutenant. Primus but this was gonna end, as the humans said, in tears. But hey, what was one more bad idea in the sea of bad ideas they'd all been floating in since the war started?

The Thirteen, huh? Jazz had heard of them. Heard good things, in that "they get slag done" way. He'd never met them, though, so he made a note to look them up, right next to the note to see who knew Shadow and see what he could find out before talking to her. If she was bad enough off for Optimus to worry, then obviously she was a tricky case. Wait, hadn't Ironhide mentioned her? Best to start there, probably....

Jazz saluted, grinning wryly. "Yes, sir. I'll do my best."

He looked up at Optimus, still standing close. That creak. That system whine. That perpetually complicated field, always heavy with responsibility-urgency-concern. And this was after a month with no significant Decepticon contacts.

Jazz wondered how long it'd been since Optimus had recharged easily or enough. How long it'd been since he'd been able to relax. How long it'd been since he'd had any sort of release valve on the pressure he put on himself. If it was within the last vorn Jazz would be incredibly surprised.

This, Jazz thought, was his problem. He cared. He needed a "What Would Optimus Prime Do?" handbook to know what to DO about it sometimes, but he cared.

"Anything else, sir?" Jazz asked, sensors flung wide.