Jazz liked it loud when it came to human music.

So loud, sometimes, that he didn't realize how hard a beat was dropping. It didn't matter, in the long run, because it worked for him and him alone. He didn't care how often Ratchet would bug him down or lecture him about the volume or how 'impractical human sound vibrates were to a training regime'.

It worked for Jazz.

And was good!

Music was great to train to. It was so good that he'd implement speakers that fired a hundred sonic booms per second into his weaponry.

Who was Ratchet to say that wasn't an effective weapon?

The rhythmic thump of bass vibrated through the Autobot base, the kind of sound that bounced off the cold steel walls and made the place feel a little more alive. Not that the others would agree. Jazz knew full well that Ratchet was probably two hallways over, venting his frustration to whoever would listen.

But Jazz? He just cranked the volume higher.

A remix of some Earth track—a wicked fusion of dubstep and old-school funk—pumped through the speakers integrated into his chassis. Each beat pulsed through his circuits as he spun, ducked, and twisted through his training drills. His servo shifted smoothly into a polished blade as he struck through a holographic Decepticon projection. The image fizzled out in a spark of blue light.

"Oh, c'mon!" he laughed to himself, sliding effortlessly into a low crouch. "Is that all you got?"

Another drone flickered to life across the training floor, this one modeled after one of Soundwave's pesky little minions. Jazz tilted his helm, optics gleaming bright as he tapped a few buttons on his wrist.

"Let's see if you can keep up with the tempo," Jazz quipped, spinning toward the drone. With a flick of his digit, a pulse of concentrated sonic energy blasted from the speakers on his wrists. The drone crumpled in mid-air, collapsing under the intense pressure of sound.