Jazz knew by now that nobody was coming to check on him. After his surprise visitor had left, the orns of silence had made his mind numb and thick.

The first orn had been okay. Boring as all frag, but not unbearable.

On the beginning of the third orn, he had cried. The first keen had escaped him by accident, but the ones that had followed had been deliberate, aching, frustrated shouts that echoed back twice as angry.

Many joor later, after the hysteria had subsided to a low vibration in his struts, he felt better. It seemed the emotionally-fuelled tantrum had been an outlet for a great many stresses he hadn't let himself notice before.

Then the self-reproach had set in.

He wasn't proud of his outbursts. Surely, a stronger mech could've tolerated his isolation. His breakdown had demonstrated a near total abandonment of self-restraint. Nobody had seen it, of course. Nobody seemed to come down to his block except to slide a cube through a hatch every once and awhile, and they didn't respond when he baited them.

Still, it was so quiet. He almost wished for a true interrogation, just for some kind of interaction.

On the fourth orn, as he reclined propped up against the door, old memory files began to slip across his optics.

"Get up."

The door was open. A large, blue-plated mech stood blocking his only exit, sneering down with indifferent optics.

Jazz growled, manoeuvring his frame into a corner in deliberate defiance of the order.

The mech approached steadily. A simple guard, probably, unused to dealing with prisoners.

"Up," he ordered again, tapping at the minibot's leg with the tip of one foot. "C'mon, Edgewise has something to say about your little noises, and I really wouldn't leave her waiting if I were you."

When Jazz still didn't move, the guard frowned.

Clawed hands reached down. Obviously unwilling to waste any more time on a job so clearly beneath him, the taller mech wedged his fingers under thick shoulder armor and hauled the minibot to his feet, only to curse as the prisoner began to kick weakly.

Jazz knew the chief interrogator intimately. In his time with the Decepticons, he had become all too familiar with the sadistic mecha's professional attitude.

Quickly, though, his malfunctioning body grew tired, and he was forced to lay back and allow himself to be dragged from the prison block.

It was, thankfully, a rather short trip. He felt every bump, every crack on the floor on the way to the interrogation room. There was fear, yes, but he did his best to keep a lid on it. He was going to need a clear head; it was his only hope of getting through the encounter to come intact.

Finally, his legs were dropped with a heavy thunk. He could feel the way his dents were already aching, but he held back his complaint. He was in enough pain as it was; enough to know when holding his glossa was a good idea.

He lay there, prone and vulnerable, until he the lock clicked shut and the footsteps faded away behind him. Even then, he remained still, apprehensive of what was coming next.

A low, throaty chuckle sounded above him.

"I think he likes you."

A choked laugh escaped his control. He couldn't stop it in time; it was equal parts humor and nerves. "Ya think? Mech, that'd be something'." There was just enough confidence to mask the tremble.

Another polite giggle, and delicate scarlet pedes appeared at the edge of his vision. They barely made a sound as they approached, stopping dangerously close to the minibot's visor. They had the angular curve of seeker pedes, but without the awkward edge spur that marks typical Vosnian thruster casings. Jazz wanted to scoot away, but he forced himself still. It was hard, but he managed well enough.

Suddenly, the voice sounded again, much closer to his audio receptors.

"Do he know where I've been, Jazz?"

The question freezes his fuel lines straight to the core.

There were only two things in the whole scrap of a ruined planet Jazz still cared for. Only two could be threatened by such a statement.

"Crystal gardens?" he quipped.

That girlish laugh burst out again, louder this time, and further away.

"Primus, Jazz, I've missed you."

A hand appeared in front of his face.

"Get up off of that floor, I don't know what you've been into." The tone was joking and light, inviting in it's warmth.

Jazz remained unmoving.

"Business or pleasure, Edge?"

The femme's voice flattened immediately to a cool, professional cut.

"Pleasure, for now."

That was enough for Jazz. He took the offered hand gladly, and allowed himself to be pulled up onto his own two legs. Immediately as he regained his balance, a glowing blue cube was thrust into his hands.

"Drink up," the femme commanded.

He did, and was surprised to find that the flavor was sweeter than normal midgrade.

"Highgrade?" he queried, incredulous. "Where in Cybertron did ya find copper blend in this Primus-damned smelt pit?"

"It was a gift," she answered simply.

Jazz let out a snort. "Gift, my aft. Who'd ya kill?"

Ruby optics flashed dangerously from across the room.

"Careful, Jazz."

Jazz knew better than to argue with that tone.

Letting the topic go for now, he settled himself obediently and stole another sip from his cube. It was good- really good. Like the kind of well-refined 'grade he'd get once every nova before the war if he had enough shanix saved up for the occasion. Regardless of the warning to leave it, his mind still boggled that such luxuries continued to exist for mecha like Edgewise.

Well, he pondered, eyeing the femme. Maybe not Edgewise. Nothing was really off-limits for a femme like her.

The femme in question had retreated to the restraint table,a structure that made Jazz's plating crawl on sight, and had draped herself over the side of it, sipping demurely from one corner of her cube. She looks like the highgrade, he thought, cultured and clean and surrounded by filth. he know better, though. he knew Edgewise- he had known her long before her career as a Decepticon interrogator had begun, and she had always surrounded herself with dirty things. No matter how her armor glittered, she belonged in the grease and the gutters just as much as he did. It was one of the reasons she was so good at what she did- Jazz had never known her as one afraid of getting her hands dirty.

That combined with her hazy separation of work and play made for a volatile mix.

Business or pleasure- the distinction had been vital.

"So, you never answered my question." The femme's voice cut through the uneasy silence like a silk curtain. It would have been easy, Jazz reflected, for a mech to really believe it was geared for casual conversation. "Where do you think I was today?"

"Ah really ain't got no business knowin' where you been, 'Edge," he replied carefully. "You know Ah ain't a mech to pry."

"No, I suppose you aren't. Not when it counts, at least."

She shifted, crossing her legs across the table. A single, thick buckle clanged against a support pipe. Jazz did his best not to react to the noise. It unnerved him, her cool collection. Hypocritical, maybe, but some mechs were dangerous when they were confident.

Edgewise was always best before she hit her worst.

"Do you know why I like you, Jazz?" she asked suddenly, switching topics.

Jazz waited for her answer.

"There's nothing I can take from you."

The femme stood.

"Other mechs, that's half the fun. I pick at their shells, take them apart, find what they care about so much that it ets their little sparks frying, and I take it. I like it. It's a challenge. But you," she sighed, "You, you're easy. I don't have to get so worked up around you, because I know, I know, that there isn't a thing I can take from you that you won't give me willingly- because you're smart, Jazz. You know that when I want something, I get it, and you know it's easier to just hand it over than to waste your time hiding it from me."

She was in front of him now, still advancing, and he had to step back to allow the movement. This wasn't good; no, this was where Edgewise's idea of pleasure and business started to overlap, and now was the time where he had to back down before things got really nasty.

"So," she said, and now he could feel her vents on his throat cables, and even though he was heavier than the femme it was hard to remember when her field went cold like that, "Do you know who I saw today, Jazz?"

"Yes!" He hissed as his optics closed tight behind his visor, and his spark churned hard when fingers began to trace lightly, carefully, across the tinted glass.

Jazz didn't care.

He couldn't care.

He didn't want to think about it.

All that was flickering through his mind at the moment was he was was trapped with this femme, nobody was coming after him, and there was no way out.

Seeming to sense his distress, the scarlet femme began to purr contentedly.

"Shh, sweetspark, I'm not gonna hurt you," she hushed. "I'm just going to ask you a few questions, okay? And you're going to give me everything, alright?"

He nodded, helm low. After all, it was easier that way.

"Good," she murmered. "Good mech. How about you come over and sit down? This is going to take a while."

And then cool, delicate fingers closed on his shoulders and steered him towards the table.

Just business, she'd whispered. It's just business.

A low, piercing keen echoed across the Autobot brig. Jazz grasped at his helm, a pained expression pasted across his visible features.

A few more orns, he told himself. A few more orns, and someone would come for him. One way or another. He couldn't stand it much longer.