Chapter Text
The comm. signal came well after the end of his shift, just as he was settling down for a quiet “evening” at “home.” His lifestyle was like that, trapping all kinds of unsuspecting words in quotation marks, but he never bothered about semantics.
<<Hey, Jazz. Sorry to bug you after hours…>> His usually chipper subordinate sounded thoughtful and perhaps puzzled, but waited considerately for the go-ahead to continue.
<<Heya, Bee. You know you can ‘bug’ me anytime, heh! I’m not doin’ anything, what’s goin’ on?>> Knowing the Beetle was on monitor duty, he wasn’t about to turn down some scoop.
<<Well, to be honest I’m not really sure. I don’t think it’s an emergency, but… you did say to report anything unusual, and this definitely fits the bill. It’s about that Copper we talked about...>>
Jazz straightened from where he had almost managed to lounge. “Copper” was their codename for the object of a very specific operation. <<Why didn’tcha say so? Need me ta get the Brass?>>
<<No, no. Like I said, not an emergency. The weird thing is he left his office, went down to the rec room, drew two cubes of high grade, and went back to quarters. I don’t know what to make of it.>>
Jazz paused, and could have blinked in surprise if his visor had a shutter. <<Are ya sure?>>
<<Yes, I’m sure. I do know which is which, you know.>> Bumblebee sounded more concerned than offended. <<Anyway, I thought you might want to know.>>
His commander was already moving for the door, <<Yeah, I think I ought to do a friendly drive-by on that one. Anythin’ unusual happen last shift?>>
Bumblebee flipped back through the last few motion readings on the command deck camera. <<Not that I can see. Last caller was the twins, not a scheduled appointment but they at least seemed to be behaving themselves.>>
Jazz stopped in his tracks, <<Those two? Frag. They’d better not have… Thanks, Bee,>>His tone acquired a low, dangerous air even as he uttered his gratitude and cut the line.
Bumblebee, for his part, was neither surprised nor offended by the abrupt end to the conversation. Once Jazz caught a lead, he was keen to drop everything else and follow it. He watched with interest as his superior flitted through the officers’ quarters with new purpose, wondering what was going on and momentarily pitying the twin Lamborghinis.
The door chime came well after the end of his shift, though he had run an errand and only just sat down to his task. At first he blinked, taking a moment to process the sound.
And there it was again.
“Prowl here,” he acknowledged, thinking belatedly that it was somewhat redundant. Who else would he be?
“Heya Prowl, it’s Jazz,” the intercom replied in a familiar voice, “Mind if I come in for a click?”
Shrugging to no one in particular, Prowl disengaged the lock on the door, which slid open to reveal the form that went with the voice. Jazz sauntered in without ceremony, allowing it to close quickly behind him.
Jazz didn’t expect the portal to open uncontested, but let the surprise roll off him instantly as he stepped over the threshold. Nothing about the room seemed out of the ordinary; Prowl’s quarters had always been neat and unadorned. It felt slightly cramped only due to the full-sized computer terminal that had been rigged onto one wall, relegating the recharge pad to the opposite side and a sitting area to one small corner by the door. Normally composed of four seats and a small table in an officer’s quarters, a pair of chairs from Prowl’s set had presumably eloped long ago to more social frontiers and never returned. The room’s owner, who didn’t seem to miss the extra furniture, could be found in one of the remaining two, looking for all the world like he had just sat down to read a moderately boring data file.
But instead of a datapad in his hand, there was a cube of glowing, nearly-white liquid. And it was already half empty. Struck by the oddness of the image, and his own speculation, Jazz was briefly at a loss for something to say.
“Is something wrong?” Prowl inquired, when his impromptu guest seemed to freeze up for more than a moment.
Released from his wavering, Jazz shook his head, “You tell me, I guess. I heard you were makin’ some unusual fuel choices, and figured I’d swing by.”
“You came to check on me,” Prowl’s observation lacked any bite of accusation, and turned thoughtful, “I assure you I am not incurring any damage. Overcharging won’t do my systems any more harm than it would yours,” for emphasis, he took a sip of his drink, raising an optic ridge.
Jazz heaved a sigh and rubbed his helm between his sensory horns, tapping one foot on the floor, “That ain’t what I meant, you’re a fully formatted bot and you can do what ya want. The ‘why’ is what I’m worried about. Afraid I might owe you an apology.”
“Why would you owe me an apology?” Prowl tilted his head, the gesture slower than normal, and stared back with optics that were curious, but bereft of their usual piercing computation.
“’Cause the twins tracked me down earlier. Asked me about some very particular files they have no business lookin’ at, that’re sealed for a reason. I told them to forget about it,” he crossed his arms, tapping his fingers on an armored plate, and looked for confirmation.
“They asked you to divulge classified information first? Resourceful,” Prowl mused simply.
“So they did! Those little-“ as he paced back and forth, Jazz’s visor flashed and his face twisted into something between a grimace and a smile, “I am going to magnetize them so hard they’ll stick to the ceilin’. Rearrange ‘em in ways Ratchet ain’ even thought of yet. I’m gonna repro-“
“I’d prefer if you didn’t. That would make a lot of datawork for me.”
Pausing his tirade of threats, Jazz gave Prowl a guilty look, “Prowl, I am real sorry. I knew what they were on about, but apparently I underestimated their stubbornness. If I thought for a minute that they’d just move on to a new target I’d’ve… I’d’ve thrown them in the brig right then. Maybe I’ll go do that right now,” he considered icily.
“Don’t.” At the incredulous look he received, Prowl elaborated, “They didn’t break any regulations. Why don’t you have a seat?” he gestured at a chair.
“Any reg- Prowl,” Jazz scowled and paced again, “You can’t just go around askin’ mechs about- about-“
“Praxus?” The seated mech supplied quietly.
“-about a genocide!” Jazz was indignant, gesturing animatedly, “It ain’t right. They should know better.”
“Did they tell you why?”
“Wha-? No! Soon as I figured out what they was askin’ I put the clamps on it. Didn’t you…?” Jazz turned to make another pass and slowed, staring.
“I showed them the report. Answered their questions.” His placid look was met with a mortified gape, “They are trying to be better friends to Bluestreak. Their sparks are in the right place. You should sit down.”
Jazz ignored the invitation again, “An’ what about bein’ friends to ya, or jus’ plain decent?” he resumed pacing, his accent getting thicker with his level of agitation, “They ever think ‘bout your feelin’s? That ya might have ta deal wit’ it later, ya of all mechs, tryna’ get drunk alone in ya room fo’ Primus’s sake-“
“I am not trying to get drunk. That would be impossible to accomplish with energon,” Prowl corrected, slowly but perfectly coherent, “I am merely slowing this down for a bit,” he tapped the side of his helm, “There is no point in running those simulations, anymore.”
“So ya just fine, then? Jus’ kickin’ it like nothin’ happened, carryin’ on like none o’ it bothers ya?” he sped up, “’Cause I know you, an’ I don’t believe that for one click-“
“I never said I was fine. I am… definitely not fine. But I am coping.” His voice was quiet, and his look was unusually candid, “Are you?”
Taken aback, Jazz said nothing.
Unconcerned by the lack of response, Prowl continued, “Why has this upset you to such a degree? I don’t think it has anything to do with the twins,” the slowed cogs behind those optics had finally found some purchase.
Jazz glanced at the door, fidgeting, “Well, you know it just…” the words died in his vocalizer when he met that tilted, steady gaze again. He was a spy, a smooth-talker with a hundred deflections for any question that hit too close to home. Except this one.
“Why does bringing up Praxus bother you so much?” The gear found another notch.
A dozen options flitted through Jazz’s processor, and he dismissed them all. By all rights he should have avoided this conversation in the first place, should be ending it before it went any further. He couldn’t bring himself to lie his way out of this one, not about this, not to this mech. Not when he so desperately wanted to come clean.
“’Cause I was there.”
Prowl looked at him for a few clicks, impassive. Then, carefully, he picked up the full cube from the table in front of him and placed it in front of the other chair.
Jazz stared at it dumbly, “…huh?”
“I think, perhaps, you need to slow down. Maybe more than I do.” His tone betrayed nothing.
“But you can’t just… I wasn’t…” his hands twitched and he moved as if to pace some more.
“Jazz, will you please just sit down,” Prowl urged, “You have been making me… dizzy.”
Jazz sat down woodenly, and stared at the cube. “You know I…” he trailed off again.
“You’re not from Praxus. You don’t understand the dialect, know little of the culture, even the music,” Prowl took another sip of his drink, “So, judging by your behavior, you showed up during the attack." He let the speculation end there, on the precipice of something deep.
All of Jazz’s words just tumbled over, “On th’ wrong side. Th’ worst side. I don’t even…” Jazz forced himself to look up, “I don’t even know what t’say, except I’m sorry. I ain’t proud. I never thought for a click that it would be-“ he paused and reached out, and dragged the glowing container closer, fiddling with one corner, “Nah, no excuses. Ya deserve that at least. By rights y’ought’ve decked me by now. I would’ve.” He shrugged and took a swig, looking away.
Prowl shrugged back, “That wouldn’t solve any equation. And I don’t think it’s quite deserved.”
Jazz shook his head in disbelief and drank again, “I jus’ can’t figure you out sometimes. Ain’t you angry? Even a little bit? I am. I won’t pretend I didn’t hurt nobody. I dunno how you can stand to sit in the same room as me.”
“Of course I’m angry,” Prowl sat up a bit, leaning on the table, “I lost the first home I ever had. Everyone that I knew. Everything that I loved about Cybertron. They didn’t deserve to end like that. And for a long time… I wasn’t sure I deserved to continue in their stead, except to get justice.” He sat back again, taking a slow sip as he thought, “But you are here, and I’m not angry at you.”
“Tha’ makes one o’ us,” Jazz muttered, staring downward. “I didn’t do anything. To stop it, I mean. I knew I should try, that I was wrong not to, but…”
“If you had tried, you would be dead.” When Jazz looked up, surprised and questioning, “I saw as much. Dissenters fared no better than my fellows. I used it to my advantage on multiple occasions. And seeing as you are not dead, you were outside the blast radius of the orbital strike. You left,” he pronounced with a pointed nod.
“I ain’t proud of that, either. Cowardly, no two ways about it.”
“Jazz,” Prowl’s dim optics bored into him seriously, “I know what it’s like to show up on the wrong side of a conflict you thought was just. To suddenly come face-to-face with your misconceptions and be forced to choose whether to stay the course, or plot a new one. It isn’t like transforming, going from villain to hero. I could not make that leap instantly, and I would not expect you to, either.”
A morose but thoughtful Jazz sipped his drink slowly, “Well, I still could’ve done somethin’. Saved somebody. Ya too too forgivin’.”
If the spy expected anything from the tactician, a smile was not it. “Perhaps. But that’s how Praxus was, what it taught me. I find that many could benefit from its lessons.”
“If tha’s true, then I think I already have,” Jazz murmured, humbled.
They sat in silence for a while, nursing their cubes and their thoughts, before Prowl spoke again, “I do have one question, if you don’t mind.”
“Fire away. I’m tired of hidin’ and lyin’to ya.” He braced himself for a difficult conversation.
“You recognized a word, once. My designation. Where did you hear that? It is an odd thing for an outsider to know.” His speech was measured, but his tone was light and curious.
“Ah,” Jazz rubbed the back of his head, “Well, it was back then, o’ course. I’d seen what was goin’ on… holed up at my assigned post, decidin’ what to do. Lost track o’ everythin’. Got caught, almost.” He opened hands in an uncertain shrug, shaking his head, “I don’ remember the whole bit, but as I was makin’ my escape somebody was shoutin’ at me, an’ it sounded like that. I always thought it meant ‘enemy’, or the like.”
Prowl tilted his head in interest, “Was it-“ and he produced a string of the now-dead dialect, reproduced precisely in speed and tone as if by rote.
“Yeah! That was it, exactly,” Jazz straightened in surprise, “How’d you know?”
“It was more or less typical local enforcer dialogue for approaching a suspicious unknown person, trespassing in a restricted area. Prowling, one might say,” he said blandly, sipping at his nearly empty drink.
Jazz couldn’t help a snicker, “You tellin’ me yo’ name means trespasser?”
Prowl huffed, “Prowl is a sufficiently accurate adaptation. In truth, my first encounter with Praxian law enforcement was much the same as yours. I merely abbreviated and adopted it. The detective who became my mentor was… less than pleased about that.”
“Heh, fair enough. What’s the probability o’ that, though? Me runnin’ into another enforcer at that point. Maybe somebody ya knew…” he regretted the words instantly, but Prowl’s only reaction was a flippant wave.
“When my processors are back at full capacity, I will let you know. I imagine it is effectively zero percent.”
“Yeah, right?” Jazz took a gulp of high grade and suddenly stopped, forcing it down his intakes with a strangled noise to avoid spitting it out, “Wait, you ain’t sayin’…?”
A smile tugged at Prowl’s face again, “I am. That was me.”