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Prowl was silent and still as he stood vigil over Jazz’s still frame in the medibay. His partner had escaped Decepticon custody and dragged himself to his extraction point. Literally dragged, as both his legs were missing below the knee. The other injuries he had sustained were equally severe, though none life-threatening. What concerned Prowl most was that Jazz’s bumper and a good portion of his hood were missing. His spark chamber was visible through the open gaps in his substructure. Who knew what the Decepticons had done to his spark?
Jazz was kept in medically-induced stasis until his torso and helm had been reconstructed, then was necessarily on berthrest until his legs could be rebuilt. Prowl kept him company as best he could, doing much of his work remotely from a datapad as was possible so that he could sit beside Jazz. The Polyhexian didn’t deal with berthrest well, and eventually Ratchet allowed him a small instrument so he could keep himself busy.
It was on his last checkup before leaving the medibay that Ratchet made the discovery.
“You have a bud on your spark.” Ratchet said, looking up at Jazz’s surprised face. “Did the Decepticons-?”
Jazz’s expression fell into a frown. “Soundwave.”
Prowl was livid, but did not protest when Jazz said he wished to keep the newspark. Ratchet didn’t seem to like it either, but there was little he could do but respect Jazz’s decision.
“We’re fightin’ for the right ta live, ain’t we?” Jazz commented, one hand on his hood, “Wouldn’t feel right to end this lil’ dude. B’sides, I’ve always wanted a bit. This ain’t the way I wanted, but I’ll take it.” He looked up at Prowl.
Gently, Prowl laid a hand over Jazz’s. “I will support you in whatever you decide. I would be honored to raise a sparkling with you.”
Jazz smiled at that, the smile that dazzled and always stunned Prowl speechless to look at.
Ratchet was not so affected. “This will not be an easy carry. You’re so modified, your spark is already supporting close to its maximum load. Plus, your coding is so different from Soundwave’s, I can’t predict how the sparkling will come out.”
“But he will survive, right?” That was what concerned Jazz.
“With me as your medic?” Ratchet was almost offended. “Of course. You’ll both be fine.”
“Then I’ll do whatever I gotta.” Jazz swore.
Thus, he was discharged from the medibay with a strict meal plan and rest schedule. Prowl immediately committed both to memory, then integrated them into his daily schedule. There would be no forgetting.
Jazz immediately felt at ease when he entered his and Prowl’s shared quarters. Not only was it the most secure room on the ship, but it also contained everything precious to him. At least, when Prowl was there too, it did.
“So, a kid.” Jazz could still hardly believe it. He sat on the berth and rubbed a hand over his chest. There was nothing to feel yet, but Jazz liked to imagine the little prick of a new bud growing off his spark crystal. “You really okay wit’ this?”
“Of course I am.” Prowl sat next to him, lacing his fingers in with Jazz’s free hand. “Are you? What Soundwave did to you-“
“Not right now, Prowl.” Jazz leaned against his partner, enjoying having the ability to do so. “I understand why it upsets ya, but I’ve had a lot worse done ta me by Decepticon interrogators. I don’ want you roarin’ off in revenge after Soundwave, yeah?”
The reality of what Jazz’s life was like as the head of Special Operations never failed to bring Prowl down. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen his partner tortured, or helped him heal from the aftermath. He was right, worse had been done. But this was his spark- Prowl buried his face in the crook of Jazz’s neck. “I just want you happy.”
“S’all I want, too.” Jazz nuzzled his helm fondly. “For you, n me, an’ th’ bitty makes three.”
“Yes, the sparkling.” Prowl’s processor was whirring almost audibly. “You are already on medical leave, I shall file the paperwork to have that extended. Then I will need to file for creator leave as well. And will need to submit a requisition for larger quarters-“
“Whoa, Prowl. Calm down, calm down.” Jazz chuckled, well used to seeing Prowl focus like this. “Y’ can do all that tomorrow, yeah? Tonight, I jus’ wanna cuddle.”
“I can accommodate that.” The two laid down, and Prowl nestled his head on Jazz’s chest. There was nothing new to hear, yet, but soon. Soon there’d be the beat of two sparks.
The Autobots would use any excuse for a party. The return of the popular head of Spec Ops certainly did call for one, though it was delayed long enough for Jazz to actually be back on his pedes and able to attend. Once the word had come that Jazz had been discharged from Medibay, the planning began immediately.
Jazz, of course, could never just sit back and relax during a party. Even his own. So, he showed up with his electro-bass to play with the other ‘Auto-bops’. That being the being the small band Jazz had put together out of Autobots with musical talents.
The music was the only reason Prowl could tolerate ship-board parties. He could sit and listen to Jazz sing and play all day, and frequently got private performances in their quarters after shifts-end. As usual, Jazz was in fine form and sounded incredible. The rest of the Auto-bops were playing amazingly as well, but Prowl only had optics for his partner.
At the end of his set, Jazz put aside his bass and looked out over the assembled Autobots with a grin. “Hey, everymech! I got a lil’ announcement ta make, so listen up!”
As conversation slowly tapered off, Jazz held out a hand to Prowl and gestured for the Praxian to join him onstage. With a sinking feeling, Prowl joined him.
“Now that I got everymech’s attention-“ Jazz hugged Prowl to his side. “I’m sparked! Me n’ Prowl are havin’ a sparkling!”
There was a moment of silence, before cheers erupted from the gathered crowd. Jazz suddenly sagged against Prowl, and he looked down at the musician in concern.
“S’alright, Prowler.” Jazz reassured. “Jus’ tired.”
Carefully, Prowl led Jazz down from the makeshift stage to sit at his table. There, they were surrounded by well-wishers bringing energon. Flavored midgrade to Jazz, and high-grade to Prowl. (To which he reminded everyone that he did not drink high grade.)
All the Autobots seemed very excited to be getting a sparkling onboard, and it was the talk of the ship for weeks. Weeks during which Jazz seemed to be getting more and more tired. The exhaustion came in waves, affecting him at the most random of times. Jazz was still scheduled for ship-board shifts, but he kept falling into recharge during them.
The explanation, from Ratchet, was that Jazz’s spark was struggling to keep up with the energy demands of the growing sparkling, in addition to that of all the mods to his system. Jazz reluctantly allowed some of his mods to be shut off and locked under medical override codes to free up more power for the sparkling, and that helped him for a time.
Prowl was finding himself unexpectedly popular amongst the mecha on the Ark. He was not used to being greeted casually while walking the halls, or having mecha strike up conversations in the rec room. Said conversations were inevitably about the coming sparkling, which Prowl didn’t necessarily mind. Though no, they had not yet discussed names or frametypes.
An upside to his newfound fame was that it wasn’t hard to find helpers willing to assist in the move to new quarters. After said quarters had been cleared of the rubble caused by the Ark’s crash landing on Earth. Prowl had once been housed in them, actually, before they had been partially destroyed in the crash. They had seemed lonely and large, then, but now Prowl would actually have something to fill them up with. Jazz, and their sparkling.
Well, and all of Jazz’s things. Neither officer had that much, after so long a war, but Jazz was prone to collecting trinkets from various worlds. There were also his instruments, which he refused to allow anyone to touch except Prowl. So, Prowl dutifully carried each instrument one-by-one to their new quarters while others took the rest of the boxes and Jazz rested.
Their new quarters were twice the size of the previous. There was the main room, a berth room, washracks, and a third room that would be used for the sparkling’s room once he was old enough.
“So, wanna break in th’ berth?” Jazz asked with a grin as the last box was set down and they were left alone in their quarters once more.
“Are you feeling well enough to?” Prowl questioned. Though Jazz had not carried anything, he had still done a fair amount of walking.
“For you? Always?” Jazz leaned back seductively and opened his panels. As always, Prowl was powerless to refuse. Especially now that he knew Jazz needed the interfacing, and the overload. Their sparkling needed the raw materials to build its body, and his spark needed energy. Prowl, unfortunately, couldn’t share his spark energy with Jazz. Ratchet was concerned that adding a third coding strain would do more harm than good, so all Prowl could offer his partner was his frame. It was a mission he took on with great gusto.
Jazz was overjoyed once the sparkling descended down to his gestation chamber. For one, it meant that Jazz became to show, and he did indeed show off the rounding of his abdomen at every opportunity, for two, it meant the sparkling was no longer drawing directly on his spark energy.
Unfortunately for Jazz, his exhaustion continued but now with an added side of fuel sensitivity. He couldn’t even enter the rec room anymore, due to the smell, and could ingest only a very specific mineral blend. One with was complicated to make, but Prowl was more than happy to do it.
Some days, Jazz was too tired to even get out of the berth. Prowl stayed with him as best he could, sitting upright in berth as Jazz slept in his lap and doing his work remotely. It was a strain on even his processors to be doing all of his work without the assistance of a terminal, but Prowl was capable of it. And he would do it, anything to avoid leaving Jazz all alone.
Other days, Jazz felt well enough to go for a walk. It would help keep his joints from locking up, and also help keep Jazz from going stir-crazy staring at the same four walls in their berthroom. Every time he went out, friends gathered to say hello and see how Jazz was doing. It was good to see Jazz smile and laugh, a hand always on his belly as he proudly showed off how much the sparkling had grown since last he’d been out. (The difference was usually negligible, but Prowl did not say that to his partner)
It was typical for Prowl to awaken well before Jazz did. He looked down at his recharging partner, a smile tugging at his normally stoic face. Jazz’s face was slack with sleep, visor retracted to reveal all of his handsome features. Prowl bent down to kiss Jazz’s cheek. “Good morning, my love.” Then, Prowl shifted to regard his partner’s swollen abdominal plating and pressed a kiss there as well. “Good morning, my sparkling.”
Pulling out a datapad and making himself comfortable, Prowl got to work.
Jazz stirred sometime later, pale silver optics onlining to look around the dim room. When he realized Prowl was still there, Jazz let out a purr and snuggled closer.
“Awake now, I see?” Prowl looked away from his datapad and reached for a pre-prepared cube of energon on the berthside table. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired.” Jazz grumped. “Ready to have th’ bit in my arms so’s I don’ feel like a one-mech car wreck.”
“I am sorry.” Once Jazz had pulled himself more upright, Prowl passed over the energon. “Let me know if there is anything I can do.”
“Massage?” Jazz suggested hopefully.
“Of course.” Prowl smiled softly. “After your energon.”
Jazz pouted, but dutifully drank his energon. Very slowly, so as not to upset his finicky fuel tank. He did get hungry, fairly often actually what with a whole sparkling to build. It was just that certain additives, impurities, or even drinking too fast, would bring it back up. One of a number of things that had Jazz frustrated much of the time. Not with their sparkling, never with the bitlet, but with his own frame and the general circumstances.
Once Jazz had finished his breakfast, Prowl dutifully put aside his work and adjusted himself to give Jazz a full-frame massage. Jazz’s joints ached constantly, mainly from staying in berth much of the time and also from the general sort of frame aches that carrying caused. The sparkling’s weight was becoming noticeable, placing stress on Jazz’s already stressed internals. Vorns of war meant every Cybertronian was a patchwork of repairs and welds, and Jazz was no exception.
Prowl had been shown massage techniques to help with such pains by Ratchet, and he happily applied what he’d been taught whenever Jazz requested. Who would pass a chance to rub their hands all over their partner’s frame, after all?
Unfortunately, Prowl did still have a job to do. The Decepticons would not sit idly while the Autobot’s main tactician was on creator leave, and there was only so much work that Prowl could do remotely. There were times where he had to leave Jazz, to attend to things in his own office.
Jazz, at least, was no slouch at keeping himself occupied. He owned a number of instruments from various civilizations, some of which were small enough to play while sitting in berth. The coming sparkling had Jazz full of all sorts of inspiration for music, and he was filling multiple composition programs with fresh work. Jazz was determined to have a special song just for his sparkling when the bitlet was born. He just had to write it, first.
Prowl would return to find Jazz sitting in berth, an instrument in his hands and lovely music being produced. He often sang as well, leaving Prowl starstruck as he stood and watched and listened.
Once the sparkling got old enough to have distinct arms and legs, he seemed to enjoy his carrier’s music just as much as Prowl did. Jazz laughed and commented on the amount of movement going on inside of him every time he played.
“It’s like he’s got his own lil’ dance party goin’ on.” Jazz set aside his guitar and placed a hand on his belly, an enormous grin on his face. “Prowler, come feel this.”
Prowl agreeably laid his hand next to Jazz’s, smiling at the powerful kicks he felt just under Jazz’s warm protoform. On impulse, he leaned over and gave Jazz a kiss. “He is very strong.”
“He is.” Jazz agreed. “Keeps getting’ me in the backstrut when I’m tryin’ ta practice..”
“At least we have one thing in common,” Prowl commented. “We both love your music.”
Jazz looked at him with a serious expression, reaching up to cup his face. “Y’know I don’ care who his coding donor was, he’ll always be yours ta me.” And indeed, that’s what they had told the crew, and would continue to tell them unless the sparkling popped out with obviously Soundwave-ish features.
“Thank you, Jazz.” Prowl pressed his cheek into Jazz’s hand. “I shall always love him, and you, as my own.”
One of the human holidays was coming up, and Jazz was still on berthrest. And very unhappy about it. He had been okayed to waddle through the base once a day, slowly and without excitement, but Ratchet had been adamant that attending a rec room party was out of the question. His energy levels just weren’t up to it, and the last thing anyone wanted was Jazz collapsing because he partied too hard.
Which was why Jazz was pleasantly surprised on the evening of the holiday when there was a knock on the door to his quarters. Prowl sent the command for the door to open, and a small crowd of bots piled in. Not the entire ship’s worth, but those that Jazz could consider close friends.
“I knew how disappointed you were to miss the party.” Prowl explained. “So, I asked them to bring some of it here.”
“Primus, have I told ya I love ya, Prowl?” Jazz gave him a kiss, before having his partner fetch his bass. He could, fortunately, play the instrument while sitting on the edge of his berth, allowing him to jam with the rest of the Auto-bops for a little while. And if he fudged a few notes because the sparkling kicked him hard, nobody said anything.
Friends continued to visit Jazz, sometimes to jam, and sometimes just to talk. Mirage and Hound came in after shift-end one day, and happened to catch Jazz awake and carefully plucking out a new tune on his guitar.
The instrument was set aside so that Jazz could more easily greet his friends. “Hey, fellas. How’s it goin’?”
“It’s going well, Jazz.” Mirage greeted properly.
“You’re lookin’ good, man.” Hound was far more casual.
“I’m lookin’ like a swallowed a planetoid, ya mean.” Jazz snickered at the rather offended look he got from Mirage in response.
“Ya are pretty round.” Hound chuckled. “How’s the sparkling?”
“Doin’ great.” Jazz gave his belly a fond pat. “Already tirin’ me out and being a lil’ pain in the aft. I wouldn’ expect anythin’ less.”
“Truly, he is your sparkling.” Mirage commented drily, sending Jazz and Hound laughing once more.
Though Jazz griped about how big he was getting, Prowl knew that he loved every inch added to his waist or gram to his weight, knowing that it meant his sparkling was healthy and growing.
“You know that I find you very attractive, correct?” Prowl crawled into berth after Jazz’s friends had left.
“I know,” Jazz ducked his head for a kiss. “Bitty belly an’ all.”
“Especially that.” Prowl agreed, before he knelt between Jazz’s legs to prove just how attractive he found his partner.
With how exhausted Jazz had been his entire carry, it wasn’t entirely a surprise when he went into emergence early. Fortunately, the sparkling was developed enough to be outside the gestation chamber, though Ratchet warned he might still be forming certain features. Scans had also shown that the sparkling might be a little. . . unusual due to conflict between Jazz’s and Soundwave’s coding.
When emergence was said and done, a very tired Jazz held his hands out for the squirming bundle in Ratchet’s arms. When he received his sparkling, Jazz understood what Ratchet’s warnings had meant.
The first thing Jazz and Prowl noticed was that their little one had four chubby arms, instead of just two. Then, the longer they looked over him, the more concerned they got over the fact that the sparkling’s optics weren’t lighting up.
A scan showed them why. The sparkling’s visual cortex had never developed, leaving the little one fully blind.
“Is it anythin’ I did?” Jazz asked in concern, cradling his sparkling in his arms. The newspark was deep in recharge, happily nuzzled in carrier’s arms.
“No. This is what I mean by coding conflicts creating problems.” Ratchet sighed. “There’s nothing any different you could have done.”
“Is there any way for it to be fixed?” Prowl questioned, one hand repetitively stroking the sparkling’s cheek. “Add a visor?”
“Maybe.” Ratchet had already thought about it. “I can work with Wheeljack on a system to help replace his visual cortex. But nothing can be installed until he is older. I won’t perform surgery on a sparkling.”
“Of course.” Prowl dipped his helm in acknowledgement. “He shall be loved and cared for either way.”
“By the way, did you decide on a name?” Ratchet had the sparkling’s emergence certificate in hand.
Jazz offered a tired smile. “Mic.”
Mic was turning out to be a happy, pleasant sparkling. He was always smiling or laughing, and rarely ever cried. As long as you never set him down, he was happy.
Jazz celebrated the return of his energy levels by taking Mic out to the rec room frequently. Everyone had been warned about the sparkling’s. . . unique features, and further warned not to say anything about them under threat of Prowl.
The Autobots happily passed Mic around, and Mic squealed with every new spark signature he encountered. The little four-armed sparkling was determined to charm every mech on the ship, using his extra limbs to cling even more effectively to whoever happened to be holding him at the moment. Prowl was never far away, staring intensely at whoever was holding his creation and thus encouraging them not to mess things up.
It gave Jazz the opportunity to quietly meet with his agents in Spec Ops and get updated on all he’d missed while he’d been on creator leave and Mirage had been in charge of the department. Though he never spent too long away from his little spark.
When Mic discovered the ability to crawl, there wasn’t a moment’s peace to be had. Being blind didn’t hamper the sparkling one bit, he was turning out to be an escape artist to rival his carrier. It was becoming rather common for Jazz and Prowl to be woken by late night comms telling them they had an escapee to deal with.
At least Mic could be relied on to always end up in the same place. He loved to be around other mecha, and so nearly always ended up in the Rec Room, or less often on the Bridge. Where-ever mecha were, that’s where Mic wanted to be.
Prowl answered the call one evening and got out of the berth to head to the rec room to retrieve his errant youngling. That it was the night shift meant that the rec was nearly empty, but not entirely so. As evidenced by Inferno sitting with a cube of energon in his hand, and a sparkling magnetized to his face.
“I apologize , Inferno.” Prowl set about the delicate task of prying his sparkling from the poor mech’s face. It wasn’t easy, sparklings had strong magnets and Mic had four arms with which to deploy them.
“Aww, it’s not trouble, Commander.” Inferno was calm and collected despite the situation. One hand was giving Mic gentle scritches behind the audial. “But I gotta return ta my shift soon, an’ I can’t take the lil’ guy with me.”
Mic was being especially stubborn that evening (or, technically, morning by the human’s timeclock.) and didn’t want to let go of his new friend. Prowl finally pried the sparkling free, and was rewarded with a supremely upset little face. Good, now he felt terrible.
There was one sure-fire way to calm Mic down, and that was with music. Jazz had written a lullaby for the little guy which put him to sleep like magic every time. Prowl, alas, did not have the singing skills of his partner. He would have to try, though.
With a shakey, flat voice, Prowl sang and prayed. By some miracle, Mic dozed off on the walk back to their quarters.
“Ya get him?” Jazz asked as Prowl entered, voice quiet and full of static.
“Yes, I have him.” Prowl gently set Mic into a containment berth (and what a misnomer that was) before returning to his own berth with his partner. “I should get a recording of that song you wrote to play to him when he’s upset, I am afraid my voice isn’t very good.”
Jazz rolled over to cup his partner’s face. “Yer voice is fine, Prowler. And Mic loves it cause it’s yours. You don’ gotta be like me. Jus’ be you.”
“But you two are so musically inclined.” Prowl loved Jazz’s music, but he couldn’t produce any himself.
“And yer his sire.” Jazz said firmly. “Don’ care if ya didn’t donate code, yer his sire and he loves ya, monotone an’ all.”
Mic was also fascinated by Jazz’s instruments, which ended up being far more of a problem. Crawling over to examine the pristine Aghartan Electro-Bass sitting on its stand in the bedroom, Mic plucked one of the strings curiously. An almost visible wave emanated from the instrument, impacting the wall and causing a section of it to crumble.
Jazz and Prowl stared at eachother a moment, stricken, before Jazz scooped the sparkling up off the floor. “Alright, no more playin’ with Daddy’s instruments right now. Not sure the hab can handle it.”
Ratchet was generally puzzled by the issue, and called in Perceptor to have a look. Physically, there was nothing unusual with Mic, save for his undeveloped visual cortex. But these things weren’t always obvious physically.
An Outlier. Their sparkling had an outlier ability. When he strummed an instrument, the soundwaves generated could destroy things. Could, but not always, though Perceptor wasn’t sure why. His going theory was that the soundwaves had to be tuned to a specific form of matter to destroy it. Tuned to something different, and nothing happened.
Clearly, they would have to keep Mic away from the instruments until a solution could be found. There was no more Academy for outliers to learn to control their gifts, and there was no one in the Ark Crew with an outlier so destructive. Problems for when Mic was older.
There was a possibility that Mic wouldn’t even be interested in instruments and music, though that seemed to be a slim bet. The sparkling’s favorite babysitter was Blaster, who reported that the little guy liked nothing more than sitting with him and rolling through different genres of music in Blaster’s extensive collection. So far, Mic seemed like to Rock the best, though he was receptive to all genres.
Then, Jazz got a private call from Blaster. He excused himself from an Intelligence meeting with his agents and returned to his quarters where Blaster was watching the bit.
“Somethin’ wrong?” Jazz asked as he rushed inside, worried that maybe Mic had strummed the guitar and broken half the berth again.
“Not wrong, ‘xactly. But I think you should see this.” Blaster was uncharacteristically serious as he tickled Mic’s belly.
The sparkling laughed and squealed, limbs flailing, then there was a little klik and Mic’s chest was opening. Not to reveal his spark chamber, but a different panel opened and folded straight down. It was almost exactly like-
“Now, that looks an awful lot like a cassette deck ta me.” Blaster looked up at Jazz. “I ain’t the type ta pry, but how’d this happen?”
“Soundwave.” Jazz said shortly, reaching over to pick up his sparkling. Curiously, he looked into the shallow compartment in his son’s chest before gently closing it. “The last time I got captured by th’ cons, he was there. Y’know.”
“Primus.” Blaster looked sorry he’d ever brought the subject up. “I’m sorry Jazz, I didn’t mean ta bring that stuff up.”
“S’alright.” Jazz bounced Mic in his arms, smiling as the sparkling laughed and batted tiny hands on his hood. “I don’ recommend a repeat o’ the experience, but I got him out of it. So, even the worst things sometimes turn out alright.”
Ratchet took a look at Mic again, looking over the sparkling’s tiny deck, but had to admit he knew very little about Cassette Carrier frametypes. In fact, most of what he knew came from working on Blaster, who was an adult and not entirely comparable to a little sparkling.
Mic clearly wasn’t in pain, however, so Ratchet decided it was best to leave him be and let his frame develop as it would.
The hardest part of it all would be answering the questions of the other Autobots. Because they would notice. Especially when Mic’s color came in blue, with highlights of red. Neither Prowl nor Jazz were exactly known for their coloration.
Jazz didn’t exactly enjoy telling the question-seekers what had happened to him while in Decepticon custody, but never had so many mecha been gunning for Soundwave since the war started. Everymech loved Jazz, which meant that Soundwave had better watch his aft if he left the Nemesis.
Not that Soundwave seemed to be up to much lately. Jazz wasn’t going on missions, but he had returned to his duties as Helm of Autobot Special Ops and his agents were reporting that nothing much was afoot with his Decepticon Counterpart.
There was no doubt in Jazz’s processor that Soundwave knew about Mic. The sparkling was too well known amongst Autobot forces for Decepticon Intelligence to not be aware of him. Every day, Prowl and Jazz worried that their little guy would disappear, but so far Soundwave hadn’t shown any interest in actually taking Mic.
That was fine. Because there was no pit in the universe where Soundwave could hide if he kidnapped Mic. Jazz would track him down and end him.
Then, the war ended. Not with a bang, but with a whimper, as they say. Megatron disappeared off to parts unknown, and then the other Decepticon officers were coming forward for a truce. Jazz had no way to confirm, but he suspected that Soundwave had something to do with it.
It was nice to think that maybe, just maybe, Soundwave stopped the war for Mic, but Jazz wasn’t going to bring the sparkling up in negotiations if the Decepticon didn’t. Mic would stay safely in the care of one of the other Autobots while Jazz and Prowl drafted the treaty.
Cybertron was still a mess, but Iacon was intact enough to house the relatively few remaining members of the Cybertronian race. Jazz and Prowl were able to move into an actual habsuite, instead of just quarters. One large enough for them to hve a room, with separate spaces for Jazz’s instruments, and a nursery for Mic. (A nursery that Jazz spent an inordinate amount of time making as escape-proof as possible, though he had no doubt Mic would get out eventually).
The habsuite needed a fair amount of refurbishment, as did the entire city, but that gave Jazz a chance to paint things however he wanted. Like putting dancing music notes all over the walls of the nursery. If you actually read it, the painting was the notes to the lullaby Jazz had written, but it looked nice as well on a pastel blue background. Jazz couldn’t wait for the cycle he got to teach Mic how to read it.
Mic wouldn’t care about the pretty art now, but Ratchet had reported to them that he and Wheeljack had made progress on designing a visor that would let Mic see. They just had to wait a little while longer for Mic to be old enough to install it.
When Mic started talking, there wasn’t a silent moment in the hab. The little guy was always babbling about something, though most of the time, Jazz and Prowl had no idea what. And if he wasn’t talking, he was singing, belting out utter nonsense in his high-pitched voice with great enthusiasm. Any time Jazz sang now, it was a duet, because Mic could not be stopped.
Both Jazz and Prowl were incredibly proud, and Jazz started writing songs specifically to take advantage of his little backup singer. The pair were incredibly popular when they went out on walks or to visit friends. Mic was having a hard time understanding why there weren’t lots of mecha all around anymore, so they had to get out of the hab often so the sparkling could see his friends.
Mic’s favorite activity, of course, was attending Jazz’s concerts. Though Prowl was working in the new government on Cybertron, Jazz had decided his assassination and sabotage skillset wasn’t exactly still needed. So, he left to take a fully civilian job that let him focus on his music and his sparkling. Blurr had done the same and re-opened Maccadam’s Oil House, and was always happy to have Jazz in and playing. Sometimes, he solo’d, sometimes the other Auto-Bops came, and sometimes Jazz backed the vocals of an ex-Decepticon named Sky-Byte.
Whatever he was doing, Prowl was certain to be there in a booth, Mic in his lap. Fortunately, the bar was rowdy enough that no one minded the sparkling’s enthusiastic singing along. Or when he wormed his way out of Prowl’s grasp to say Hello to all the potential New Friends.
Finally, the day came when Ratchet announced that Mic was now old enough to receive his visor. He was walking (and running) now, and speaking in full sentences. His frame could now support a mod.
“Visor” turned out to be a misnomer. Rather than a piece of transparasteel like Jazz’s, the mod was actually a whole helmet with an integrated visor on the front that would sit over Mic’s optics like goggles.
“I know it’s bulky.” Ratchet turned the piece over in his hands to show the inside. “But it has to contain all the hardware to turn visual input into readable data that his processor can take in, since he doesn’t have a visual cortex to do it automatically.”
“But he will be able to see?” Prowl questioned.
“Yes.” Ratchet confirmed. “He might not see like you or I do, but he will be able to process visual data.”
It took a minute to get Mic down on the berth, mostly because he was determined to hug Ratchet. Finally, they just had to give it up and let it happen. Mic squealed and pressed his face against the medic’s broad chest, identifying the mech he was hugging with a proud. “Ratchet!”
“Yeah, that’s right. I’m Ratchet.” Even the notoriously surly medic cracked a smile for the adorable youngling and gently patted his head. “You ready for an upgrade?”
“Upgrade?” That was a word little Mic didn’t know yet.
“Yep. Don’t worry, won’t hurt a bit.” Ratchet’s experienced fingers found the medical port in the back of Mic’s neck, and before he knew it, he was in medical stasis.
The surgery was, as promised, quick and painless. All Ratchet had to do was install an uplink port on Mic’s temples to interface into the new visor, ensuring that input would bypass Mic’s inactive visual cortex.
Prowl and Jazz had their creation back in under a joor. The new helm and visor looked a little odd, but then, they had gotten used to Mic’s sightless optics. They would get used to his visor as well, in time.
Then, it was time to bring Mic out of stasis. Ratchet went through the necessary steps, then moved out of the way so that his creators could be the first thing the youngling saw.
Mic’s systems whirred to life, visor flickering on to glow a beautiful blue. The youngling gasped, head twisting around to take in all the new input. Jazz leaned over the berth, to put himself directly into his creation’s field of view. “Mic?”
“Ri ri?” Mic pinpointed the noise and his gaze snapped onto his Carrier. Seeing Jazz for the very first time.
“And your sire.” Prowl added leaning in on his creation’s other side.
Mic didn’t seem to know what to make of his new sense, head constantly on a swivel as he was carefully taken home. Slowly, he was able to associate the things he heard and felt with what he was seeing, which greatly reduced how often he bumped into things. His favored way of identifying mecha was still be teeking an EM field, though, an activity best done with a big ol’ hug in Mic’s opinion.
Prowl put himself in charge of teaching Mic how to read, which he did with the usual patience he showed everything. Mic was excitable and hard to keep still, but he did love to learn. He didn’t want Prowl to read his favorite books aloud to him every night, he wanted to read them himself!
It was Jazz who was in charge of teaching Mic to read music, though. And to play it. The youngling was still obsessed with his carrier’s instruments, and it was getting more and more difficult to keep him away from them.
So, they took the music room and sound-proofed it with the latest materials, courtesy of Perceptor. Everything else was removed, including all unused instruments, before practice commenced. Jazz started Mic out on a keyboard, hoping that the lack of strings might hamper his outlier ability. It didn’t, but it was the thought that counted.
Fortunately, with Mic facing a blank, soundproof wall, there wasn’t too much for him to destroy. Occasionally, he synced up with the frequency of the soundproofing and obliterated a chunk of it, but then Jazz just had to go get more. After the third time, they just had Perceptor give them a pile of replaceable panels.
Stopping was never even a thought for Prowl or Jazz. It was clear that Mic loved music, equally loved listening to it and creating it. He adored it when Blaster came over to watch him, shouting “Come on, let’s Rock and Roll!” when he teeked the red and yellow cassette-carrier at the door. (Unfortunately for poor Jazz, it seemed that his creation preferred Rock music over jazz.)
Alas, there would be no way for Mic to share his gift with the world unless they could figure out how to keep him from destroying things when he played. His creators could only hope that he’d learn control with time.
Finally, the moment Jazz had feared occurred. He was out at the local park, freshly rebuilt, with Mic when he noticed someone on the edge of the park. A very familiar someone.
Unfortunately, Mic had noticed the newcomer as well. And to him, a stranger was just a friend he hadn’t met yet. (Prowl’s attempts at teaching the sparkling ‘stranger danger’ had, as of yet, been unsuccessful). With a happy “Whee!” Mic ran over to the other mech and threw all four arms around him for a hug. “Hello! My name is Mic! And I like making new friends.”
A red visor regarded him curiously. “My name is Soundwave.”
“Wow, what a great name! And a cool voice.” Mic complimented, smiling up at the taller mech earnestly. “Are we friends, now?”
It was about then that Jazz caught up to his errant creation. “Hey, Mic. Why don’t you go play for a klik. Daddy’s gotta talk to this mech here.”
“But dad, this is my new friend. His name is Soundwave.” Mic recited dutifully.
“It is alright.” Soundwave intoned. Pressing the button on his shoulder, his tape deck opened and he ejected his cassettes.
Mic squealed when he was suddenly surrounded by new mecha. “Wow! You’re just like my friend Blaster! My chest does that too, but nothing comes out!” He tapped his own eject button for emphasis, popping open his chest. His tape deck was underdeveloped, and Ratchet suspected Mic would never be able to host a symbiote.
Then, the cassettes were distracting Mic, leading the sparkling back towards the playground so that Jazz and Soundwave could talk.
“If you or your little monsters hurt him, no one will ever find your frames.” Jazz hissed as an opening salvo.
“I have no intention of harming him.” Soundwave said solemnly. “I was simply curious about him.”
“Yeah, well. There, you’ve seen him.” The nightmares of Soundwave taking Mic away still haunted Jazz at night. “I don’ care that he’s got yer coding, he ain’t yours.”
“I know.” Soundwave inclined his head. “I am sorry. For what I did to you.”
That was not what Jazz had expected. “For sparkin’ me up?”
“It was not my intent.” Soundwave said briefly. “However, Megatron ordered a merge done, and I obeyed.”
“Y’ always were a good lil’ soldier.” Jazz sighed. “Thanks for the ‘pology, I guess. I still don’ want ya around my kid.”
The two looked over at Mic, who was happily playing with Soundwave’s cassettes. Then, the youngling wandered over to one of the structures on the playground which contained wires strung from structure to ground. Sparklings were meant to weave around them, or climb them, or something, but Mic had something different in mind and used the tensioned wires to pluck out a tune instead.
The resulting sound drove everyone to their knees, leaving Mic standing in confusion wondering why his Dad and all his new friends were on the ground.
Soundwave recovered first, staring over at Jazz with his visor bright.
“Alright, he’s got an outlier.” Jazz shook his head and slowly pushed himself off the ground. “Weaponizes soundwaves into attacks. Makes music lessons real interestin’.”
“I could help with that.” Soundwave offered. “If you are amenable.”
Jazz’s automatic refused died on his glossa. If Soundwave could really help Mic control his Outlier. Make it so his baby could play music for others without hurting them. Well, that might be worth playing nice.
“I gotta talk ta Prowl.” Jazz finally said. “His sire. I’ll get back ta ya.”
With that, Jazz went to collect his son.
Mic was uncharacteristically quiet on the walk back to their hab. “I did it again, huh?” The youngling commented with a voice too heavy for one so small. “I tried to play music n’ hurt everybody.”
“It’s okay, buddy. Ya didn’t mean to.” Jazz swung Mic up into his arms. “Soundwave offered ta help ya, if ya want. So ya can play music an’ not hurt nobody.”
“Really?” Mic’s face lit up again. “Yaay!”
Prowl, as expected, wasn’t very happy about the idea of Soundwave having any time at all with their creation. As he always did, he had a thousand theories about what Soundwave might be up to, ranging from the plausible to the outrageous. Jazz patiently argued each point until Prowl had calmed down enough to have an actual conversation.
“He ain’t gonna be alone with Soundwave, I promise.” Jazz swore. “You or me’ll be there at all times. An’ ya know how happy music makes Mic. I want him ta be able ta play without breaking stuff an’ injurin’ mechs.”
Prowl sighed. “Okay. But you or I will be there. And if Soundwave tries anything, I’ll shoot him.”
In Mic’s room, all was dark and still. The youngling was curled up on his berth, deep in recharge. Prowl’s gaze softened as he looked at his precious creation. Bending down, Prowl gave him a kiss on the forehead. “I won’t let him take you from me.”
Soundwave had so many young symbionts, it seemed fitting that he was good with sparklings. He was never impatient with Mic, even though the sparkling was far more energetic than the cassette-carrier was. Nor did he ever seem uncomfortable, even with Prowl glaring at him hard enough to combust a lesser spark.
Mic brought his small keyboard with him and happily played for Soundwave, while the communications specialist recorded the results. Things broke or shattered at times, but Soundwave didn’t get upset. Even when one note cracked the glass across his chest. Mic was not unaware of the damage he caused and tried to stop several times, but Soundwave gently encouraged him to continue.
After a few weeks of this, and no sign of Soundwave trying to steal their sparkling or anything else, Jazz and Prowl both started to relax. (Prowl slightly less so.) Finally, Soundwave said he had an idea. He would just need to talk to some engineers.
With that, the plan had been to stop seeing Soundwave, but Mic said that he missed his large, blue friend and all his smaller friends. He wanted to keep playing with Soundwave, and with Ravage and Buzzsaw and Laserbeak and Rumble and Frenzy. When their creation pouted, there was little Prowl and Jazz could do but give in. (Mic did, at least, still like Blaster better. Which was a balm to their sparks)
Mic had gotten very good at keyboard and was adding guitar to his lessons, which added a new level of danger. His Outlier ability seemed to activate more readily with stringed instruments. They were going through a lot more soundproof panels, and Jazz had to deactivate his audials more than once to prevent damage. Mic’s control was improving, though, as the worst damage he managed was shattering Jazz’s visor. (At which point Mic put down the instrument for the day to fuss over his Dad. Fortunately, Jazz kept around spare visors for just such occasions.)
The youngling was getting so big, he was only one frame upgrade from his adult frame and getting an alt mode. Unfortunately, what his alt mode would be was rather oblique. He had no wheels or kibble, which made Jazz suspect he would be some kind of music player. It meant that there would be no teaching his sparkling how to drive, which saddened him, but he would accept whatever Mic ended up turning into.
Soundwave revealed what he had been working on as well. Discs, which would focus Mic’s music and filter out the dangerous frequencies that caused damage. Mic would simply have to be modified so he could insert the discs into his chest compartment and read them that way, a task that would be done during his adult frame upgrade. His chest compartment would never host a symbiote, so there would be no harm to the modification.
Finally, the Big Day came. Mic was beside himself with excitement. He was getting his adult frame! He had a small toy in his secondary hands, playing with it restlessly as they walked to the medicenter to have the procedure done.
“Will I be tall, like you?” Mic asked, holding onto both Prowl and Jazz’s servos.
“Yes, Mic. You will likely be the height of myself and your dad.” Prowl said indulgently, having already answered every question multiple times.
“Does that mean I’ll be able to play your Electro-Bass, dad?” Mic had been obsessed with the enormous instrument for ages, but had been told he was not yet big enough to play it.
“Yeah, buddy. Real soon.” Jazz gave his helm an affectionate noogie. “Remember, we’re gonna get ya some special stuff so’s you can play music without breakin’ things. Then, I’ll teach ya to play my bass.”
“Yaaay!” Mic cheered. “I’ll be able to play for other people an’ not hurt them. I’m so excited.”
“And everyone is very excited to hear you play.” Prowl squeezed his hand. Jazz had done nothing but talk up how good Mic was at playing music since the youngling had been old enough to pick up an instrument, and the other ex-Autobots were quite interested to see in person.
Once at the medicenter, Mic showed Ratchet and the other staff the drawing he had done himself of what he wanted to look like, then solemnly held out his favored toy. “Ratchet, can you make me look like this?”
“You. . .want to turn into a toy robot?” Ratchet looked down at the toy in his hands quizzically.
“He’s always been a good friend. And he’s cute and plays music.” Mic said cheerfully. “Everybody loves Cosmo Robo!”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Ratchet promised. Then, he was putting Mic into stasis for the upgrade.
The adult upgrade took several joors, but when he was done, Mic looked just how he’d wanted. His new visor-helm unit had a tall fin on top, which contained a light that would react to music volume levels, and his entire frame was pastel blue with red accenting. Prominent on his chest was his new disc reader, and his legs featured large speakers. He looked like a cross between Soundwave and Blaster, if Jazz was honest, but that didn’t matter. As long as Mic was happy with how he looked.
“Oh, I’m big now!” Was Mic’s first comment as he shakily got off the berth to stand on his pedes.
“Yeah, buddy, y’are.” Jazz and Prowl helped steady him. “Everything feel alright?”
“I look great!” Mic twisted to get a better look at his new frame. Arms patted where he couldn’t reach, feeling new plating. He still had four arms, two primary ones mounted to his shoulders, and two secondary mounted on his back. All four patted at his chest, which clicked open to reveal an empty disc compartment. “Oh, this looks different now! For my new discs, right?”
“Yes, those will be ready for you soon.” Prowl reassured.
Ratchet came back in, then, to run a few tests and make sure everything was integrating properly. And also, of course, to supervise Mic testing his transformation sequence for the first time.
As promised Mic’s new alt mode was the spitting image of his Cosmo Robo toy, if many times the size. He was about waist-high to his creators, with almost no legs to speak of and big, oversized pedes. Instead of a face, his alt mode had a display screen on it’s round helm. It fizzled, then an image of an oversized pair of optics appeared. Mic couldn’t actually see through the screen, since only his visor had the mods to process visual data for him, but alt modes had other sensors for navigation.
“Well, what do you think? I copied your toy as best I could.” Ratchet said proudly.
“Oh, it feels so strange!” Mic danced in place on his clunky new pedes, waving his noodly arms. “Oh! I only have two arms now! Do I really look like Cosmo Robo?”
“Like a precise replica.” Prowl assured him.
“Yaaay!” Mic flipped in and out of his alt a few times, giving his t-cog a little workout. “I love it!”
Mic was almost as excited the day his regulating discs arrived. He fidgeted in place in Wheeljack’s lab, guitar in his arms as the engineer set up some monitoring equipment. Finally, he was handed a disc.
“Alright, just put that in yer deck and we’ll give it a test.” Wheeljack’s fins flashed happily.
“Yes!” Mic popped open his deck, now re-designed to accept and read discs, and insert the one he’d been given. “Disc, set on!”
“Now play.” Wheeljacket stepped back out of range prudently.
Eagerly, Mic started jamming on the guitar. The song went on, and no devastating shockwave was produced, so Mic played even more eagerly. Three more songs went the same way, before Wheeljack declared that he’d collected enough data. Mic’s music was now safe.
That evening, the family celebrated. Jazz and Mic had a jam session in the living room, while Prowl watched appreciatively. Mic was working on playing the guitar and the keyboard at the same time, seemingly for the challenge, and was managing it surprisingly well. His singing voice had also improved greatly, and harmonized well with his carrier’s. Prowl, of course, did not sing, but clapped appreciatively at the end of every song.
Of course, Mic’s greatest dream was to play for others. He got his chance when there was a reunion for the old Ark crew, with Jazz’s band the Auto-bops playing. Now with a new, special member.
Everyone at the party had known Mic since he was a sparkling, though none had ever heard him play for obvious reasons. They’d just heard Jazz and Prowl talk proudly about him.
But now, Mic stood on the stage with his carrier and the band and looked out over the crowd. Then he lifted his guitar and shouted “Come on, let’s Rock and Roll!”
As everyone danced to the music, Optimus Prime found his way to the seat next to Prowl. “You have raised an incredible creation.” He complimented.
“Thank you, sir.” Prowl only had optics for his mate, and his son. “He had grown into a wonderful mech.”
If Mic was going to be playing regularly now, he needed an instrument of his own. Designing it was a task he did with the help of Soundwave, who was still visiting the young mech on a regular basis, while Wheeljack was contracted to build the thing.
The result was a gold double-necked guitar, except that the lower neck was a keytar instead. It was the sort of crazy mash up only a mech with four arms would be able to play. Naturally, Mic adored it.
“Its name is the Dazzling Double-V!” He said proudly, cradling his new instrument like a sparkling. “Isn’t it great?”
“It looks very nice.” Prowl complimented. “Why don’t you play something for us?”
“Oh! Yeah, of course!” Mic pulled a disc out of subspace and insert it into his deck, then plugged his new Dazzling VV into his side ports. The instrument was designed to interface with his frame, sound emerging from his leg speakers.
There were fumbles, of course, as would be expected with any brand new instrument. But Mic handled the odd combination of guitar and keyboard surprisingly well. Fingers on all four of his hands flew over the strings and keys, banging out the sort of upbeat tune he favored.
As always, Prowl clapped once the performance had come to an end. Jazz grinned and tugged his son’s head down for a noogie. “That was great, kiddo! How’s the new piece feel?”
“I love it.” Mic hugged his new instrument (carefully!). “Can we go practice?”
“Yeah, buddy. We can go practice.” Jazz went to grab his bass. Now that it was safe to do so, Prowl sat back to enjoy their practice session.
Mic getting older meant that he was asking harder questions of his creators. The most difficult of which was “Why don’t I look like either of you?”
It wasn’t entirely true. Under the visor, Mic’s face looked almost exactly like Jazz’s, but in frametype and coloration, he resembled his coding-donor more than anything.
Jazz and Prowl knew this day would come, much as they wished it never would. Solemnly, they sat Mic down and explained who his coding donor was. Prudently, they left out that Jazz had been sparked while being tortured in a brig cell, just that Soundwave had been involved and the result had been Mic.
“Wait, Soundwave is my real sire?” Mic seemed incredibly confused. He looked to Prowl with a sad expression. “But you’re my sire.”
“Yes, I am.” Prowl felt his spark breaking a little. “And I always will be. Soundwave merely provided the initial coding to create you.”
“Soundwave is nice.” Mic mused. “But I like you better.”
Which was the cue for Jazz to go “aww” and pull everyone in for a family hug.
Mic was getting ready for his first concert where he’d be the lead. Jazz would be backing him on bass, and Blaster on drums, but Mic would be lead guitar/keys and vocals. He was in a state of nervous excitement.
“I’ve been thinking, I need a stage name.” Mic commented after practice one afternoon.
“A stage name?” Jazz chuckled. “Alright, lay it on me. What’cha got?”
“I want something long. Mic works as a good regular name, but not for a Rock n Roll star!” Mic grinned. “How about this. Mic Sounders the Thirteenth!”
“Well, it’s certainly long.” Prowl commented. “What is your reasoning?”
“Well, Mic cause it’s my name. And Sounders cause of, you know.” He mimed strumming his guitar, referring to the devastating soundwaves he’d produce if he didn’t have a disc in. “The Thirteenth, cause thirteen is supposed to be unlucky. And I’ve been unlucky I guess. No optics, the thing I love to do hurts people, I gotta have all these mods I wear. But I’m stickin’ with it!”
“You’re not unlucky.” Jazz gave him a hug.
“Makes for a cool name, though.” Mic said brightly.
“Yeah, I guess it does.” Jazz laughed.
Mic was genuinely a great musician, and it wasn’t too long before the name of Mic Sounders the Thirteenth was enough to draw a crowd on its own. He was headlining concerts on his own, though he often still played with his Dad as well.
Jazz and Prowl made a point to attend every one of their creation’s concerts, cheering along with all the others when Mic broke out his Dazzling VV Gui-Keytar, or his Sparkling V harmonica. Mic thrived on the positive energy of his concerts, belting out his lyrics with all the considerable enthusiasm he could muster.
“He is so much like you.” Prowl commented, wings bobbing to the music.
“Aww, he’s got a lotta you in him, too.” Jazz replied, knowing that it was a sore spot for his mate.
“How so?”
“Look at him up there.” The two regarded their grown creation for a moment. “He could extinguish ev’ry spark in this buildin’ without even thinkin’ about it. But he never would. Cause he cares about mecha and their lives more than anythin’ else. That ain’t me, that’s all you.”
“Thank you, Jazz.”
The two returned to watching Mic perform, settling back to simply enjoy what their son created.
Desire, Crushing to pieces
Desire, Wandering ahead
Desire, The Voice of Time
Desire, Dazzling all the waaaay
