Chapter Text
Jazz is tentatively picking over the idea that this is a lost cause, and he's going to have to admit that and call in for extraction.
Which okay, no big deal, turns out thinking it would be a breeze because he’d dealt with this species before was too optimistic. It wouldn’t be the first time his skillset wasn’t right for a situation and he’s had to pull back to let an operative who’s a better fit handle it. Except for how Mirage has already taken a crack at infiltrating this compound and couldn’t so much as get past the perimeter fence; these Ravir were able to detect him somehow, even with his electro-disruptor. Mirage is still prickly about it.
So Jazz is already the backup plan here, is the point. If he gives up and heads back to base – yeah, sorry guys, nothing I’ve tried to get into this place undetected has come close to working and I’m out of ideas so let’s call it a day – then they’ve hit the end of their list of options. It’d mean having to pack up and call it quits entirely, and they can’t do that because finding proof that these are the people paying the merc outfit poisoning Autobot energon supplies isn’t really something that can be put in the ‘too hard, I’ll get around to it later’ basket.
He’s a bit stuck, is what he’s getting at.
Stuck enough to be getting desperate.
Desperate enough that he hesitates instead of reaching for a weapon when he spots the aerial circling low over the compound, even when he’s certain that it is Buzzsaw. The other cassettes will do things on their own, but Buzzsaw? If he’s around then Soundwave is never far away.
Here Jazz is, busting his aft until he dents his skid plate trying and completely failing to sneak in, and Soundwave has somehow found a way to get these people to let him in the front door. The frown that twists Jazz’s mouth is two parts frustration, one part professional envy.
Hmm. This does give him an idea though.
If one of his agents had come to him with this plan, Jazz would have slapped it down, given them an earful on how this level of recklessness wouldn’t be worth it even if the chance of success wasn’t so low, and perhaps suspended them from active duty on grounds of terminally poor judgement for good measure.
Good thing, then, that Jazz doesn’t need to ask anyone’s permission, and right now he’s willing to pawn off begging for forgiveness as being future-Jazz’s problem.
One fresh coat of paint and a temporary Decepticon decal over his Autobrand later, and he’s ready to knock right on the front door of the compound.
It opens, and he’s visor to beak with one of the energon poisoning dirtbags he’s been unsuccessfully trying to spy on for weeks. (Probably energon poisoning, Optimus would remind him. Optimus refuses to do anything about these guys without solid proof that they are behind all this.)
Jazz smiles pleasantly.
“An easy course and following winds,” he gives the customary greeting between strangers who hope to be on good terms in the Ravir’s own language. Good thing he’s got his pronunciation of Ravirian and their customs down, because manners are a big deal for these guys. “I am Officer Soundwave’s personal assistant.”
Jazz doesn’t give any name for himself, and knows he won’t get one for this Porter either. Names are very personal in Ravir culture, using someone else’s – even asking for it – is a serious insult unless you’re close friends.
He’d found that out the hard way once, back when he’d been planted as an attaché to a diplomat in the Ravir capital. It had taken months to smooth all the ruffled feathers from that one.
The Porter looks affrontedly down his beak at Jazz. The feathered crest that sweeps back from his brow and over the back of his head starts to rise up, grey plumage lifting to reveal bright red feathers on the crest’s underside that are hidden when it lies flat.
“The Representative didn’t inform us that he had summoned an Assistant,” The Porter says in Ravirian.
Soundwave is a Representative, huh? That is interesting. It’s a designation used for business dealings and contract negotiations.
“My apologies. I regret to speak ill of the Representative, but he must not have been aware that he needed to. He has not been trained for diplomatic relations with your people,” Jazz says. Ravirian’s stiff sentence construction is almost as difficult as the clicks and whistles that make up the language, but he manages.
The Porter unruffles, his crest smoothing back down.
“I see. It is good to learn that the Representative is aware of his… deficiencies in our negotiations, and has seen fit to address them,” he says, stepping aside to usher Jazz into the compound.
Wow. Whatever these ‘negotiations’ involve, Soundwave must be really bungling it if the Porter is willing to be that up front about it. It would be way too much of a faux pas for Jazz to just up and ask what the ‘con has done wrong, but boy would he love to know.
Though it means Jazz is getting let in with less scrutiny than he deserves, which is nice. And if Soundwave is struggling here, the odds that Jazz’s ploy might work just went up. That might be a little too hopeful given how everything about this mission up till now has been like pulling teeth – but Jazz is a big believer in the benefits of optimism.
Behind the gate is a barren rectangle of bare, smoothed concrete, leading up to the biggest building in the compound. The Porter begins leading the way to that building, clearly expecting Jazz to follow him.
The first step of Jazz’s plan was getting into the place, which now he has. Progress! The third step is finding an unguarded computer and getting the two minutes alone he needs to find evidence that ties these people to the mercenaries poisoning the Autobots’ energon.
Step two is flexible by necessity, and currently a work in progress. But he’s good at thinking on his feet. He’s got this.
He follows the Porter into the brutal slab of a building.
The outside of the building is nothing like what he’d seen in the Ravir capital, ornate architecture and curving flourishes had been the norm there. For all the years he was there he can’t remember setting foot inside a building that didn’t have some sort of grotesque chiselled onto the front. Jazz mentally files that as potentially relevant information. It might mean this place was originally built by someone else, or for another purpose, or – if he’s lucky – that these Ravir don’t want anyone to know that they’re the ones who own it.
The inside of the building on the other hand is much more what he’d been expecting, like something that had been put together by someone with an exclusive passion for designing upscale hotels; décor rich with reds and oranges and yellows, polished wood furniture, thick carpeting woven out of some kind of organic fibre that tickles Jazz’s pedes. In huge letters on the wall opposite the entry MOBIUS SECURITY SYSTEMS is embossed in white and gold.
As he follows the Porter deeper into enemy territory Jazz rolls his shoulders, trying to ease the tension tightening his cables as they approach a conference room.
Keep it cool. You’re holding all the cards here.
Or at least you just need to look like you are.
“An Assistant has arrived,” the Porter announces as he opens the door.
The three people seated at a long table in the middle of the conference room turn.
Soundwave’s visor snaps to Jazz and, credit to his reflexes, an electrical whine gives away that he’s powering up his shoulder cannon quicker than the turn of a spark.
“An easy course and following winds,” Jazz says to the two Ravir first, because the possibility of imminent violence is no excuse to violate social niceties with these guys. And then just for Soundwave, he says in English, “You know these guys are planning to screw you over, right?”
He steps lightly into the room, moving so casually you’d never know it puts him in point blank shooting distance of a sworn enemy.
“Hold your fire for just a sec,” he continues, baiting the hook, “and I’ll prove it.”
Soundwave's visor doesn't so much as flicker, he gives away nothing for Jazz to gauge his reaction by. Is this gambit about to give Jazz the opening he’s hoping for, or should he be ducking for cover? The Decepticon’s inscrutable mask and visor, and impassive body language, offer no hints either way.
The others responses are not as mysterious; they look like two ends of a sliding scale from agitated bewilderment to bewildered agitation. Not all that surprising, Ravir have never been close to the sector of space that Earth is in. There won’t be a single Ravir in this compound who’s so much as heard English before, never mind being able to understand what Jazz had said in it.
Jazz knew that, of course. That’s why he picked it.
The bigger of the two Ravir turns back to Soundwave, ignoring Jazz in favour of the person she thinks has command over him.
“This Assistant is one of your own? And you summoned him without seeking permission?” The larger Ravir snaps, her crest flaring.
Soundwave, who most definitely did not do that, doesn’t spare her a look. His red gaze pins Jazz to the wall.
And then, he nods.
“Affirmative,” Soundwave says.
Jazz winces internally as the Ravir bristle. Their interactions are governed by a lot of unspoken rules, and violating or conforming to a rule has a specific codified meaning. He’s seen firsthand how fast diplomatic relations can break down when an ambassador had unspokenly communicated something without realising.
The correct response to that question would have been Soundwave apologising for bringing a stranger into their domain without their go ahead. Not doing that is a silent statement of territorial aggression, a signal that Soundwave doesn’t respect their authority over their own spaces. Since this is a negotiation, it tells these Ravir that he had never intended these negotiations to come to a conclusion acceptable to both sides from the beginning.
Weirdly, instead of escalating like they should, the Ravir force themselves to relax. The smaller one even goes so far as to smooth down his ruffled feathers with the claws at the end of one of his wing-arm things.
Huh. Odd. That’s not how things should have gone at all. Something else is at play here. Something Jazz can’t see yet.
But not knowing what’s motivating the dynamics here doesn’t mean he can’t use it to his advantage.
“Apologies for interrupting proceedings,” he says in Ravirian, “I am sure you understand the necessity of now taking a break. I can assist best moving forward if the Representative has time to familiarise me with the preceding discussions.”
It’s delicately phrased so that saying no would be undeniably inconsiderate. If Soundwave hadn’t just insulted them so badly, convention would dictate that they’d have to agree or else give Soundwave legitimate justification to offer them less favourable terms. But since he has insulted them, they should refuse.
The Ravir hesitate, the smaller one looking to his more outspoken counterpart. Jazz would put shanix on her being the Negotiator to Soundwave’s Representative, since it seems like she’s been taking point in the discussion.
There’s less to go on for what role the other one is filling, maybe a Conciliator… or he could be an Examinant, actually, if these Ravir are as ready to bend rules as they seem to be.
“I suppose,” the Negotiator says slowly, “that indeed I must understand that. The time you need is yours.”
Her crest is still up, but the Negotiator gathers her datapads primly and leaves the conference room as if she totally isn’t waving a near literal red flag showing how much doing this grinds her gears. The maybe-Conciliator-maybe-Examinant and the Porter follow her lead and leave behind her.
And then it’s just Jazz and Megatron’s most trusted officer.
This is the make or break moment – everything hinges on convincing Soundwave to cooperate.
Soundwave watches Jazz from across the room, the red gleam of his stare intense and unwavering. Has he already worked out that Jazz is about to stretch the truth so far that he’s only not bluffing on a technicality? Does Soundwave suspect, is he searching Jazz’s façade for tells? Or does he just know better than to take his eyes off this particular Autobot? It could be any of these, Soundwave gives off nothing to go on.
What tactic would be best here? Not flattery, this isn’t Starscream he’s dealing with. Direct, he decides. To the point seems like the safest option with Soundwave.
Jazz does a quick visual sweep, checking for cameras or microphones.
“Certainty that there is no surveillance equipment in this room, total,” Soundwave says, switching back to English. He’s as quick on the uptake as ever.
“Suppose if there was, you’d know.”
Jazz flips open a panel on the underside of his forearm and pulls out the dataslug he’d prepped earlier, sliding it across the table to Soundwave.
“Mobius Security Systems is planning to poison the ‘cons once they’ve got what they want. Mercs they hired have been getting into as many Autobot energon stores as they can find, trialling different types of contaminants and quantities so that Mobius’ll know exactly how to hit you hard enough you can’t retaliate when the time comes,” Jazz says.
A durable lie needs a foundation of truth, and it’s entirely true that mercenaries have been poisoning Autobot energon supplies. Decepticon Intelligence must already know about that – the Autobots have barely had time for anything besides trying to fend off the ongoing sabotage and scrambling to replace contaminated fuel. It makes for a quiet front line.
The carefully curated information on the dataslug will fill in the gaps for Soundwave. That, and Jazz had cherry picked reports to make the situation look even more dire than it is. They say that desperation is never a good look, but it can be when it convinces your enemy you’re desperate enough you’d be willing to beg them for help.
Soundwave plugs it into a datapad and flicks through its contents.
“Information provided, only concerns poisoning of Autobot stores. Evidence Mobius is paying mercenaries, absent. Evidence Mobius intends to attack Decepticons at the completion of dealings, absent,” Soundwave says.
“Come on now,” Jazz pulls out a practiced smile, the smooth, intimate one. “You can’t expect me to give you everything for free.”
“Price of information?”
“Just a little mutually beneficial cooperation. You help me steal a few files from these Ravir, I’ll share what you want to know and whatever we find here.”
Jazz cocks his hip against the table, conscious of needing to project casualness to cover his building anticipation before he gives himself away with unsteady vents and flaring armour. The thrill of this stage of a mission never dulls, the part where everything either pulls together or falls apart and you can never tell which way it’s going to go until you reach that moment.
Soundwave pauses. Considering? Maybe.
“More specifics, requested.”
“You are a stickler for the details. These Ravir will have a contract for the mercs, there’ll be invoices for the services paid for on top of that. You help me find where they’re keeping their receipt book, and cover for me while I download those. Then we both make a clean exit. Nothing too difficult.”
“Autobot, expects Mobius Security Systems to be keeping a paper trail for their illicit dealings with mercenaries?” Soundwave says, managing to imply an impressive amount of scorn in that monotone.
Jazz rests his elbow on the high back of a chair so he can prop his chin on his knuckles. “You don’t know a lot about Ravir, do you?”
Soundwave doesn’t seem to take offense to that. Not that this tells Jazz anything, Soundwave wouldn’t seem to even if he did.
“Current negotiations, first direct interaction with the species,” Soundwave says.
“Protip for you then Rookie, Ravir always keep invoices. There’s no such thing as an informal agreement for these guys. They have a cultural thing where if you ain’t got proof of a deal then whoever you’d bargained with doesn’t owe you jack, no matter what you paid them. I’m not risking my neck on a hunch here.”
Soundwave considers this. “Then, willing to accept with an adjustment to the terms. I must also get direct access to their records.”
That’s not ideal.
“You’ll get copies of everything, but I need you as a distraction. We’re not going to get into a sensitive area without someone drawing attention away,” Jazz says, pushing to see if he can get Soundwave to let that one go.
Soundwave is steadfast. “Condition, non-optional. Likelihood of you sharing undoctored copies of the records, low. Witnessing evidence firsthand, essential. Cassettes are fully capable of drawing attention on their own.”
Can’t fault that reasoning, even if he has a suspicion that Soundwave’s love of extracting every secret he can get his Decepticon spymaster hands on is playing a role here.
It could also be something of a problem, since Jazz’s story about having evidence Mobius Security Systems is planning a double-cross is completely made up.
It could be true, which is why his bluff worked. It’s totally possible that poisoning the Autobots is a trial run to make sure that when they hit the Decepticons they hit where it hurts. But there could be proof in those records that these Ravir indisputably aren’t planning to break faith.
Jazz’d been hoping – although only a little, this is Soundwave after all – he’d get solo access to the records so if that happened he could fabricate something that backed up his play to palm off and keep this gamble running smoothly at least until he’s got a shot at a clear exit. Can’t do that with Soundwave looming over his shoulder.
Is this a dealbreaker?
Can’t think on it too long, Soundwave’s waiting for an answer.
Nah, Jazz decides. He can work with this. Worst outcome, he gets less intel than he’d like and has to beat a quick retreat through hostile territory when Soundwave finds out he’s been tricked. Best outcome, Mobius actually is duplicitous and Jazz’s own deception never has to be found out.
It’s 50/50 odds, really.
“Fair enough. So, a truce until we give Mobius’ financials a going over. Looks like we’ve got a deal,” Jazz says.
Giddy with success enough to risk a little daring, he grins and extends a hand over the table.
“Shake on it?”
Soundwave opts not to shake on it.