Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bluestreak lay on the ground overlooking the battlefield, flattening his doors down to minimize his silhouette. He positioned his rifle, checked his aim manually through the scope, then jacked in and slaved the rifle’s optics to his own. His target was kilometres away but to the sniper linked to his weapon the entrance to Octane’s empty field tent was as clear as day.

Bluestreak waited for cycles, patient as death. Then he was very quick: two shots, processor and spark and Octane fell.

Slipping away as chaos erupted below, Bluestreak prepared to track his next target. Praxus would be avenged.

Chapter Text

As Unicron’s screams of rage faded so did the presence and echoes in Megatron’s mind. The surge and fire of dark energon in his veins dulled to the sullen glow of banked embers. Shaking his head, the warlord rubbed his face with one hand and stood, not without effort. “Teamwork,” he muttered thoughtfully. “Hunh.”

Ah, and what was this? Optimus Prime, down and without any of his precious Autobots around to come to his aid. Megatron walked to the Prime with deliberate steps, waiting for a reaction. Where Megatron would attack, Optimus would likely attempt to convince him to maintain their truce, but he had learned over their long war to never underestimate his old enemy.

If Optimus would not yield to Megatron’s rule, he really should try to kill him. This stalemate of theirs served no one.

//alert Cybertronian life signals corrupted @47.1633889,-66.6598587,11.13z | @47.1633889,-66.6598587,11.13z | @-43.345004,-68.8736277,17z advise//

Soundwave’s burst transmission was blunt and concise as usual. Megatron paused, putting Prime’s fate on hold for a moment.

‘Identify,’ he ordered his spymaster.

//unknown possible dark energon revenants instances total > 1,000 advise//

Megatron knew he had not raised any revenants and, furthermore, he did not feel the tug on his spark that told him they were his to control. If they did not belong to him, they would belong to no one.

To pull enough Vehicons back to the Nemesis would significantly impact mining yields. Out-and-out military operations risked drawing the attention of the humans and, while he certainly did not fear the flesh creatures, they were both persistent and hardly worth the energon required to swat them.

No, he would need to find some way to deal with these revenants, and quickly. Knock Out was a capable enough medic but as a scientist lacked the innovation and lateral thinking he had so prized in Shockwave. He would need someone capable of unusual leaps of thought, someone who could merge things that should not work into a functioning unit.

The Autobot medic would do nicely.

‘Await my order, Soundwave.’ Megatron powered down his cannon and held out a hand to Optimus, who was pushing himself upright. “Well, then, Optimus,” he said, closing his fingers around Prime’s hand and helping him up, “it would seem our alliance may yet be of use to me.”

Chapter Text

Prowl didn’t trust his emotions. While any emotion might logically correspond to the generating event, it might equally not do so. Worse yet, emotions were sometimes contradictory, and particularly so when it came to the head of Spec Ops. Their positions in Command meant Prowl couldn’t avoid him entirely, but a professional relationship was simpler to maintain than a social one. Prowl understood professional relationships much better.

Jazz took things more lightly than Prowl, who was slightly irritated by his seeming inability to take things as seriously as Prowl felt he should. Jazz seemed to always be fidgeting, even if it were something as small as running a stylus through his fingers. Prowl, who could sit perfectly still for cycles on end, sometimes wanted nothing more than for him to stop.

These emotions made sense to Prowl. They were logical, based on their differing personalities. Prowl could put them aside and work with Jazz.

What did not make sense was the way Prowl liked hearing Jazz talk, wanted to watch his dextrous fingers, or was fascinated by the line of Jazz’s throat whenever he tipped his head back.

It was illogical, and that was why Prowl didn’t trust his emotions.

Chapter Text

General Bryce had secrets.

That wasn’t news. Bryce had been involved in top-secret projects since he’d been assigned to Majestic 12 in the 1970s. Unit: E was hardly his first rodeo with items and events that had to be kept from the public. Before the arrival of the Transformers, it hadn’t involved actual aliens, but the lessons learned from MJ-12 and Projects Sign, Grudge, and Blue Book had prepared Bryce and his people for the possibility.

Of course, the reality was different. Bryce had not expected giant shape-changing robots locked in a civil war. Still, the presence of aliens who not only had advanced technology but were advanced technology seemed so promising.

Unfortunately, Optimus Prime refused to share any Autobot technology. Attempting to hack the computer the aliens had been given hadn’t worked. Whatever Bill said about their medic, the robot knew how to put up a firewall. Based on reports, Bryce didn’t think the Autobots had even noticed the attempts. Another method had been necessary.

The man assigned to that method wouldn’t have been Bryce’s first choice. He was ruthless, lacking conscience and empathy. It was his intense focus on his assignments that was needed. Colonel Bishop got results.

Chapter Text

It was unusual for Ratchet to leave the base. It was even more unusual for him to do so when there was no Decepticon activity requiring an Autobot response. This was why, when Optimus sought his medic one evening, he didn’t think to look on the top of the mesa. It took a comm call to finally locate Ratchet.

‘Do you wish for company?’ Optimus asked. Much as he would like Ratchet’s company at the moment, he didn’t want to intrude on Ratchet’s solitude.

‘I…yes, I would, Optimus.’

‘Very well. I will see you shortly.’

Arriving at the top of the mesa, Optimus saw Ratchet sitting on a rocky outcrop not far from the helipad. While it would have been difficult to remain silent walking on rock, Optimus made no effort to hide his presence. Still, Ratchet did not turn to face him.

“May I join you, old friend?” Optimus asked, and Ratchet finally glanced up at him.

“Oh. Yes, yes, of course.”

Optimus lowered himself to the ground. Ratchet’s hand, warmth contrasting with the cold desert night, slipped into his own. Outside the confines of their private quarters that too was unusual, though here they were entirely alone. Clearly, Ratchet wanted some form of comfort. The way to get him to admit what was bothering him was, Optimus knew, to wait for him to bring it up and then gently coax the details from him as necessary. So, Optimus waited patiently.

“Do you ever miss the stars over Cybertron?” Ratchet asked quietly, after a long few minutes.

Optimus tightened his hand around Ratchet’s reassuringly. “I do, yes.”

“Hm.” Ratchet tipped his head back. “I wonder what our world’s night sky looks like now. We’ve been gone long enough for it to have changed.” He sighed. “I used to enjoy tracking the changes of the stars.”

“We will see it again, Ratchet,” Optimus promised. “I have faith.”

“Faith,” Ratchet repeated. “It’s not easy, sometimes.”

“Faith isn’t meant to be.”

“Hmm. Perhaps.” Ratchet rested his head against Optimus’s shoulder, relying on the darkness of the desert night for the privacy they strove to keep. “Perhaps it depends on what, or whom, you have faith in.”

Optimus put an arm around Ratchet’s broad shoulders; Ratchet’s arm came around Prime’s waist. “Perhaps it does.”

Chapter Text

My children have poisoned me.

The efforts of the Archivist of Iacon to hide the existence of Dark Energon were in vain. Those few remaining Sparks of Unicron remaining within Cybertron have been found, studied, used to infect many, all in the name of a war that divides my children. The Plasma Energy Chamber has been corrupted by the blood of my brother-enemy and fed into my core, into me.

I am weakened, ill, and cannot support my children. I must send them away, I must rest and heal. Perhaps, during the long years of separation, my children will too.

Chapter Text

Jazz’d thought four deca-cycles housesitting for a rich mech who lived in the wilds outside the Taigan Heights, on the cusp of the Limbranite Tundra, had sounded like an easy gig, a good way to earn extra shanix during the summer term. Security and cleaning were automated, same with energon delivery. All Jazz had to do was be a presence in the house, accept any deliveries, and make sure he was in from sunset to sunrise. That was it, and a healthy chunk of shanix’d find its way to his account at the end of the job. The agent who’d hired Jazz on behalf of the homeowner had explained his employer felt the house to be at higher risk during those times. Jazz figured he meant for break-ins. Anyway, Jazz would be able to practice as much and as late as he liked without bothering the neighbours and get a head start on studying for the second year of his degree. What he hadn’t counted on was how quiet it would be.

Jazz got in a lot of practice, just to fill the silence.

At first, he’d spent loads of time exploring the vast house, peeking into rooms that, while perfectly clean, didn’t seem to have seen use in centuries. After a couple of mega-cycles of that, the eerie stillness of the untouched rooms started to get to him, and Jazz retreated to the family wing of the house, where he’d been given a suite. The suite, with a sitting room, separate bedroom with a balcony, and private washracks, had his dorm room beat by a mega-mile. Free use of the well-stocked kitchen, household library, oil baths, and the entertainment centre and the bar in the rec room only made it sweeter. Mech who owned the place had a fantastic collection of music and movies, filled with rares. Less than a deca-cycle in Jazz already had a long list of titles (public domain, thanks!) he was going to ask permission to copy.

When Jazz got the pieces he’d brought to practice on down he started trying to play some of the rare music pieces by audial. If he wasn’t allowed to copy them, he’d at least know how to play them. It filled the silence and made him feel less alone.

A little more than a deca-cycle in the silence was broken by the winds howling off the tundra. Coming from Altihex, Jazz was used to Cybertron’s polar winters but not to winds like this. They howled, they wailed, they whistled and cried in the corners of the house. More than once Jazz was sure he heard a voice outside, calling. A quick analysis of the sound said otherwise, but it freaked him out a little every time. Probably why he started to feel like someone was watching him, too.

Jazz stopped watching movies from the ‘horror’ and ‘suspense’ categories. The wind kept him up, and he was having enough trouble ‘charging anyway.

The weird sounds the wind made were why he didn’t respond to the knocks the first time. The second time they were louder and more deliberate. Someone was knocking at the terrace door off the dining room.

Jazz froze, then lunged for the nearest monitoring terminal for the household systems. There was a secure perimeter around the house. An alert should have sounded if a mech or mechanimal had breached it. Maybe he’d missed it, but – nope. There was no record of an alarm, and everything on the perimeter showed green. He tried the external security cameras and couldn’t bring up the ones that covered the terrace. The terminal said they worked, even though Jazz’s optics said otherwise.

More knocks. If there really were a mech out there, it was way too cold and windy to leave them outside. The house was pretty far from the road but not so much that someone needing help couldn’t see it. The cameras didn’t work so the security system might be glitching too.

Jazz was just stepping through the rec room door when he distinctly heard a voice say, in his left audial, “don’t.”

Jazz froze again, every system leaping into ‘fight-or-flight’ mode.

Okay, mech, calm down, he told himself. You ain’t been sleeping, and the sound of the wind is freaking you out. Going a little stir-crazy, that’s all.

He started for the terrace doors again and again heard, crystal clear in his left audial, “don’t,” and ahead of him, the sound of knocking.

“Just gonna check,” he said, feeling silly talking to an empty room. “Not gonna open the door ‘less I think it’s safe.”

“No.”

That sounded more like an agreement than a warning. Not that anyone was there to agree or warn to begin with…

Jazz overrode the dining room’s motion sensor so the lights would stay off. The terrace should be lit if someone were there and staying in a dark room would give him a primitive one-way glass. Jazz could see them but not the other way around.

The terrace wasn’t lit. Either the motion-sensors that triggered the lights were malfunctioning like the cameras, or…

Yup, no one was there.

“Primus,” Jazz muttered in genuine relief. He must’ve heard something banging against the house – he’d check in the morning. Maybe he’d go for a drive too. Town was a bit far for him to be back before sunset but some road under his wheels would do him good.

Jazz shut his movie off and went to bed.

He was just about to drop off when it occurred to him that the home wasn’t set to darken the windows at sundown. Thanks to the house turning lights on and off as he entered and exited sectors, if someone was outside watching, they knew exactly where he was.

Great.

He wasn’t going to get himself to sleep now. Jazz hated to do it because he wouldn’t feel as rested in the morning, but he overrode his autonomic systems and manually powered down. At least he wouldn’t dream.

***

Jazz raced down the empty highway, music at full volume. He sang along, letting the rush of freezing air over his alt-mode clear his mind. This was what he needed! Mecha weren’t meant to spend so long cooped up by themselves. Between that and not ‘charging right, of course he was going stir-crazy.

After a few hours Jazz spotted a rest area, just the right spot to stop and stretch before heading back. He pulled in, transformed, and did just that, then stopped to look out over the road and the tundra. Idly, he thought about what kind of music would suit such a cold, stark land: maybe something low, sustained, with the harmony in a higher octave standing in for the wind. Jazz strolled along the perimeter of the area, humming as he looked out over the landscape. When he reached the end and turned around, he saw a figure standing on the tundra, maybe a half-mega-mile away.

For the second time in a mega-cycle, Jazz froze. That mech had not been there before. He would have seen them approaching; the land was so flat and empty it was impossible not to. The figure stood with their back to the sun, throwing them in silhouette, and held a rifle, pointed at the ground, in one hand. They were watching him. Creepy.

Jazz flipped back into alt and raced back to the house and safety. He played music to take his mind off the strange figure, but it didn’t work. He only felt safe once the property’s gates closed behind him.

***

Over the next few mega-cycles Jazz still made sure to get out every day, but used the driving paths on the estate, not the highway. It wasn’t as much fun: he couldn’t go a fast and the trails were made of gravel which he’d never liked driving on. No strange figures appeared out of nowhere, and nothing knocked at night. The feeling of being watched inside the house increased though. Jazz even felt like someone was following him sometimes. He put it down to being freaked out by the place and not sleeping well and made sure he was always playing or listening to something. It helped, some.

Then, one night, the wind picked up again, louder than ever. Jazz gave up trying to sleep in his suite and bunked down on a couch in the rec room. He kept the hallway and dining room doors closed to block the sound of the wind as best he could.

He couldn’t stop listening for knocks, though. Jazz gave in and manually powered down again. Seemed like that was the only way he’d get some rest.

Manual power-down would keep a mech out through just about anything. Jazz expected to sleep through the remainder of the long night. The sound of the house’s commsuite woke him after four cycles with a single ring. Jazz jerked awake, muzzy and trying to figure out what the noise was. When it didn’t come again, he relaxed back onto his pillow and tried to sleep again, without using a manual override. As he lay there, he slowly became absolutely sure someone was sitting on the end of the couch, watching him.

No one’s there, he told himself firmly. Just raise your head and look.

It took him a couple of nano-kliks, but he managed it. Just like he’d told himself, nothing was there. Jazz lay back down and shut off his optics.

A long, soft sigh sounded.

“Hungry.”

The fucking couch cushions shifted. It felt like someone had leaned over to get a better look at him. Jazz’s mind blanked from terror.

“Hungry. Dream? Feed.”

Jazz flung himself off the couch and bolted for the nearest outside door, the one to the terrace. He scraped himself against the dining room doors when they didn’t open fast enough and slapped the control for the terrace doors so hard it chirped in protest, and he had to try again.

The night air was freezing, and the shock of it calmed him a bit. The terrace lights didn’t come on, a strangely detached processing thread noted. Everything else was spinning, trying to work out what the fuck just happened because it couldn’t have been what he thought.

“Hungry?” whined the voice from just inside the door. The dining room lights had turned off, automatically, when the house detected Jazz exiting the room. Whatever it was, it wasn’t tripping non-sapient sensors. “Hungry!” it repeated angrily when Jazz didn’t move. “Feed!”

Okay. Okay. Seemed like it couldn’t leave the house, whatever it was. But Jazz couldn’t survive forever outside the house. His best instruments were in there too and the tablet with all his textbooks on it. He couldn’t afford to leave any of it – not least because if he didn’t finish his housesitting contract he’d be nastily short on funds next year.

But, Holy Primus Below and all Thirteen, he did not want to go back inside.

Then he remembered outside wasn’t safe either. The silhouette, the knocking. More practically, the wind that tore any semblance of heat away from his frame. There were outbuildings, gardener’s sheds and the like. Jazz didn’t have access codes to any of them, but maybe he could force one? Even a door propped shut would provide better protection than trying to recharge outside in alt. Problem was, the grounds were dark, and he didn’t know what else was out there.

Someone pinged his on-board commsuite, and he started. There shouldn’t have been anyone around. Murderers and supernatural entities didn’t send you a ping, he was pretty sure. Really, Jazz was happy to see anyone then. He returned a cautious ping. A message came back, simple, with no markers for the glyphs.

‘I’m going to approach. Turn around.’

Jazz turned, hating the idea of having his back to the house. Someone was approaching out of the darkness, rifle held at attention against their torso. The shape entered his visual range and resolved itself – Jazz’s height, chevron, door wings – into the silhouette he’d seen at the rest stop. Threat? Not a threat? Threats probably didn’t warn you they were approaching – unless they were sadistic. Jazz devoted a processing thread and a decent amount of memory to developing escape routes.

The mech stopped. “I’m not going to harm you.” The voice was cool, level, confident. “I’m here to help, but you must invite me into the house.”

“I – there’s a-a thing in there…”

“I know. I’ve been hunting it a long time. Invite me into the house,” the mech repeated.

“Door’s open.” Jazz did not want to go back in, but this mystery mech was welcome to it.

“I can see that. Step through it and invite me.” A little more gently the mech added, “it can’t take from you while you’re awake. Go on.”

Well, he couldn’t stay out here, and he couldn’t ask anyone else to, so…Jazz stepped into the house and gestured to the other mech to enter. “Please, come in.”

Manners were ingrained, and Jazz databurst his name, home, and pronouns to the other mech. The transmission he got in return was…odd. The name and pronouns were straightforward enough, but the home read ‘Cronum’ instead of ‘Nova Cronum’ and had strange markers he didn’t recognize. Jazz supposed if there was a ‘New Cronum’ there had to have originally been a plain ‘Cronum,’ but he’d never heard of it. Either the mech was hiding his origin, or he was unspeakably ancient.

“Thank you, Jazz,” Prowl said, stepping inside and lowering his rifle.

The lights came on, and Jazz got his first real look at his visitor. Stark black-and-white colour scheme, strong armour, stern features. The word ‘ascetic’ came to mind. His rifle was etched all over with glyphs and symbols. Jazz didn’t recognize them any more than he had the markers on ‘Cronum.’

“Is it still here?” Jazz asked. He hovered near the door while Prowl stalked the length of the room. It looked like Prowl was looking for something. Or, listening, maybe.

“Yes,” Prowl replied distantly. “It’s gone into hiding somewhere in the house though. It won’t be back tonight.”

“How can you tell?”

“I’ve been hunting this prey for a long time.”

“Okay, um…” Jazz was at a loss. “What now?”

“Engex, silicon wafers, and sodium chloride.” Prowl ‘spaced his rifle and added as an afterthought, “please.”

“Uh – “ What the hell, Jazz could use a drink too. “Sure. I’ll – I’ll be right back.”

When Jazz came back from the kitchen, food and drink on a little tray, Prowl had a map Jazz was pretty sure was of the moons’ orbits spread out over the table. Four round little silvery weights, a symbol in the centre of each, held down the corners and prevented the flex-metal from rolling up. Jazz set the tray off to the side, well clear of the map but within Prowl’s reach.

“My thanks,” Prowl said. He ignored Jazz for a moment, crunching silicon and sodium and chasing them with Engex. “Have you been here for a full lunar cycle?”

“Which one?”

Prowl sighed. “Any of them. I realize this is probably your first encounter with an actual wight – “

“A what?”

Prowl pinched the bridge of his nose. “How can you be this badly thrown? Didn’t your master teach you to center?”

Jazz was completely lost. “Listen, mech, I don’t have a master, and I've got no idea what you mean by ‘wight.’ I got hired to housesit, that’s all. Moons and wights and voices out of nowhere weren’t part of the deal!”

Prowl’s head jerked up, and his intensely blue optics bored into Jazz’s. “You’re no apprentice, but it spoke to you?” He rounded the table and approached Jazz. “Let me see your hands.”

Jazz quickly set his cube down and held his hands out, starting to think humouring Prowl was best until daylight came, and he could find a way out. Or until he could call for help and get some cops out here. His own commsuite wasn’t strong enough, he’d have to use the house’s.

Prowl grasped his hands and studied them intently, turning them to catch the light in different ways.

“Musician,” Prowl muttered. “Huh. That explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“Why I mistook you for an apprentice. My apologies.” Prowl looked up at him again. He did not let go of Jazz’s hands. “Did you have callus mods installed, or develop them naturally from playing?”

“Developed them from playing,” Jazz replied warily. “Can’t afford mods. Why?”

“I wanted to know what kind of pain you’re not afraid of.” Prowl looked back at Jazz’s hands, running the pad of his thumb over the calluses. For some reason, that felt too intimate, and Jazz finally pulled his hands away. “What kind you endured to learn your art.”

Jazz took a step back. “Okay, Prowl, listen, don’t think I ain’t grateful for you scaring that thing – “

“Wight.”

“– yeah, that wight off but having a total stranger talk about what kind of pain I can take kinda freaks me out. So…”

“Oh.” Prowl took a step back. “Of course. Please, forgive me for disturbing you.”

“Sure, yeah, forgiven. Just, can you please explain,” Jazz made a gesture meant to indicate the voice, the moons, Prowl, the thing with his hands, “everything?”

“Yes, of course. It’s the least you deserve.” Prowl looked, briefly, wistful and it eased the sternness of his face. “Sometimes I forget how young you all are, how you’ve never known a world with the darker things I’ve hunted. I’ll explain everything but first,” he nodded at Jazz’s Engex, “you may want more of that.”

Jazz picked up the tray with wafers and cubes of sodium. “Let’s just…go to the bar.”

Sitting at the bar with a decanter of whiskey and two glasses between them felt bizarrely normal. Normal went right out the window when Prowl explained that he was an ancient wizard hunting down preternatural creatures that preyed on Cybertronians. The wight he was searching for fed on dreams and was only vulnerable to Prowl’s magic at this time of year. It was weakest when Luna 2 was in ascendance – whatever that meant – over the southern polar region but was cunning enough to hide in a house. Prowl could have entered the house uninvited but without permission to enter he wouldn’t have had permission to use magic to the extent he’d need. Jazz, who was a proxy for the actual homeowner, giving him Engex, silicon, and sodium had symbolically solidified his guest-right and removed any remaining limiters on his power.

“So,” Jazz said slowly, both confused and slightly tipsy by the time he’d pried all that out of Prowl, “the house has some kind of dream-eating demon, and you’re here to kill it with magic?”

“It’s not a demon; the demons were locked away by Primus,” Prowl reassured him. “Otherwise, yes.”

Jazz stared at him for a long couple of kliks, then buried his face in his hands in disbelief. “I just wanted a summer job. You know, the normal, wight-free kind?”

“I don’t,” Prowl replied truthfully. Jazz raised his head to see Prowl gazing thoughtfully into the hallway. “This has been my entire function, for millennia now. The wight in this house is the last of my quarry, though. I’ll have to adapt to your normal very soon.”

“I – “ Jazz didn’t know if he should offer congratulations or sympathy.

“I’m very curious to see what it will be like,” Prowl continued. “Although, I’m not sure what I’ll do. I’ve no musical talent, and I’ve always found that the closest thing to magic that’s left. That’s why I mistook you for an apprentice, even though it’s been many centuries since I’ve known of anyone able to take one.”

Jazz got the feeling there might’ve been an element of hope there, too. Prowl probably didn’t want to be the last of his kind. “I’m sorry?” Jazz offered.

Prowl shook his head. “No need. It’s the nature of things to change. I’ve known this was coming for some time. Still,” he stood up, “I have preparations to make. The wight won’t attempt to feed while I’m here. I suggest you find a sanctuary and get some sleep: I’ll have you assist me tomorrow. There’s a lot of property to cleanse here.”

“There are guest rooms on the second floor. Take any of them.” Jazz didn’t think he could try to sleep on the couch again and his suite was the closest thing to a sanctuary he had. “Anything you need before I head out?”

“Just a well-rested assistant.”

Jazz took the hint and said goodnight.

***

Prowl wasn’t kidding when he said there was a lot of property to cleanse – whatever that meant. Jazz was still working on ‘magic is real’ and ‘something wants to eat your dreams.’ He was pretty sure Prowl was doing something, somehow, to manipulate energy but he didn’t even try to work out what it was. It took them, walking slowly, most of the daylight hours, to ‘cleanse and establish’ the perimeter. Jazz started out tense but, since most of his work was to carry small medallions Prowl occasionally nailed to the ground and to hold the lunar orbit map when Prowl consulted it, eventually got bored. Without thinking he began to hum.

Prowl stopped suddenly and turned to him. Automatically, Jazz held out the map.

“No,” Prowl shook his head. “Not that. That song – where did you hear it?”

“Hm? Oh.” Jazz replayed the last klik or so of his short-term memory log. “That’s just – I was thinking about what’d suit the tundra, music-wise. That’s all. Sorry.”

Prowl actually smiled. It was slight, but there. “Don’t be. Continue, if it pleases you.”

Alright. Better than thinking about dream-eating wights, anyway. Jazz shrugged and kept humming and working on the piece in his head while he followed Prowl.

“What now?” Jazz asked when they were finally finished with the perimeter, ending at the gates where they had begun. Prowl took his map back and ‘spaced it.

“Now, we refuel and rest. The wight is contained within the property. I require eight cycles to recover, then I’ll draw in the perimeter to contain it within the house.”

“’Contain it within the house,’” Jazz repeated slowly. “With us.”

Prowl shrugged and started up the path to the house. Jazz couldn’t believe the mech was still walking, instead of driving. “It isn’t corporeal. Unless you’re dreaming it can’t do anything beyond shout at you and scare you, perhaps throw a small object or two. Frightening, but ultimately harmless.”

“Doesn’t feel harmless when it’s happening.”

“I can’t remember the last time I was afraid.” Prowl said unexpectedly. “It’s surprising it hasn’t gotten me killed yet. Fear can give you an edge if you don’t let it overwhelm you. Fear keeps you alive. Remember that, Jazz.”

“Believe me, this house gives me plenty of edge,” Jazz said drily. “What’s gonna happen after you’ve got it contained in the house?”

“I draw it to a single room and banish it. Hopefully, I can manage this without requiring another rest session.” Prowl walked in silence for a moment. “Magic is nearly faded, Jazz. Once I could have banished a wight in a single step. In a way, it’s good that this is the last one.”

“Will you miss it?” Jazz asked.

“Perhaps. I’ve done this for a long, long time and I’ve been alone for much of it. I think this may be the most conversation I’ve had with another mech in centuries.”

Jazz wasn’t surprised.

They refuelled together in silence. Jazz couldn’t remember the last time he’d walked so much and was just grateful to sit and rest his aching feet. Didn’t have that problem with wheels.

“I’ve gotta practice,” Jazz said when they were done with their energon. “Is there anything you need while I’m doing that?”

Prowl looked – hopeful? Hard to tell: he wasn’t the most expressive mech. “May I join you? It isn’t often I’m able to hear music.”

Jazz always had liked to play for an audience. “Sure.”

Jazz had been using the sitting room in his suite to practice in. Virtually every seat in the room was covered in instruments, printouts, or sheet music. Prowl wordlessly took a place on the floor, out of the way, looking for all the world like he was going to meditate. Jazz picked his upright bass because, played with a bow, it would work better for what he had in mind for his tundra song. It was always a good idea to read your audience and Prowl had liked that one.

Jazz played for an entire cycle. Prowl was a silent, attentive, audience. Whenever Jazz glanced his way, he was watching Jazz play with utter fascination. Most of the time Prowl’s attention was on Jazz’s hands yet the last time Jazz looked up before he finished playing, it was on his face. Prowl was looking at him with an intensity Jazz had rarely seen, and never on someone he’d just met. When he finished playing, Prowl was still looking at him with that same intensity, the same fascination.

“Prowl…” Jazz tried then trailed off.

“Nothing happens unless you want it to,” Prowl said calmly, “and not until the wight is destroyed and your mind is clear.”

“Right.” Jazz gave himself a mental shake. “Of course.”

Prowl got to his feet. “Reassurance never hurts. Thank you for playing for me, Jazz. You don’t have to sleep, but I suggest you get some rest.”

“Yeah. Okay. See you soon.”

***

Nearly seven cycles later, Prowl messaged Jazz to come down to the rec room. Jazz supposed that made sense; it was the central-most room and probably your best bet if you were eventually going to pull a perimeter in. You could exert nearly an equal amount of effort in each direction.

“What do you need me to do?” Jazz asked when he arrived. Prowl had pushed some of the chairs back to clear more space and set out a ring of solid silver pieces, big enough to contain them both if they were close together.

“Just stand behind me. It will ensure your safety.”

Jazz got into place behind Prowl, making sure every part of him was inside the circle since that seemed important. “Safe from the wight?”

“Safe from anything that might show up. It should not happen, nothing is left to threaten us, but,” Prowl shrugged, “habit dies hard and ignoring a precaution inevitably puts one at risk. I won’t let harm come to you. Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

“Very well.”

As with the perimeter, Jazz couldn’t see what Prowl was doing even though he could certainly feel it.

There was no mistaking when the wight was drawn into the room: even if it hadn’t been shrieking the very air felt thicker. Prowl was speaking now, in a language Jazz didn’t recognize, a calm counterpoint to the wight’s fear and rage. Jazz focused on the sound of Prowl’s voice, trying to ignore the way it felt like he was standing in the middle of a small, intense, storm.

He wasn’t sure if the storm were the wight or Prowl.

The shrieking rose to a painful pitch – Jazz would have to recalibrate his audials if it didn’t stop – as the wight screamed and screamed and begged. Jazz swore he was going to hear its pleas in his dreams for solar-cycles to come. He thought he heard his name and shuddered.

Prowl raised his voice and spoke a single word and –

“It’s done,” Prowl said, turning to Jazz. Jazz could feel the change in the room’s energy. Checking his chronometer, Jazz was startled to see how much time had passed. It hadn’t felt like cycles. “How are you?”

Jazz ran a brief systems check. “Fine. You? I mean, that was – you’re done now, aren’t you?” He meant the ritual, the hunt – everything. Fortunately, Prowl seemed to understand.

“Yes,” Prowl said, not meaning just with the wight. “I am. I don’t know what happens now.”

“Want to stay for a bit and think it over?” Jazz offered. He wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted – he sure didn’t have the clear head Prowl had mandated – but he did know he didn’t want to be alone. Maybe Prowl didn’t either.

Prowl traced the sides of Jazz’s hands with his fingertips. “Will you play for me again?”

“Yeah.” Jazz lightly gripped Prowl’s hands. “I will.”

“Then yes.”

Chapter Text

Memory: Clear sky and bright sun. Beautiful. He wants more.

It will be eons before he has it. The mech who will be Megatron doesn’t know that, only that it’s beautiful. Through long years in the dark, the miner holds the memory of sunlight.

Memory: A call to…something. Battle. Victory? Claims that things will change now that the…something (someone? someones?) is (are?) gone.

The memory is too fragmented.

Memory: The roar of the crowds the first time he kills an opponent. The first time the light goes from another mech’s optics at his hand. The other is dead, he is alive. They are separate, individual.

Memory: “I still function!”

Does he?

Memory: Standing atop a defeated opponent. The crowd roaring his chosen name, creating a new name. He accepts it. He is not The Fallen, he is individual, he is Megatron.

Memory: A message from a librarian in Iacon. Answering, unaware of where this will lead. Unaware of how deeply he will be betrayed.

The rage (the hurt) when the librarian takes what was his, fury at the Prime’s continued opposition. He longs to look into Optimus’ optics as he rips out his spark, to force his former friend to feel betrayed as he did.

Memory: Dark Energon. His Terrorcons. Reaching for his army and – fragments and nonsense. He cannot recall. Why?

Memory: “I still function!”

He is not sure he does, and he hates that. Uncertainty is for the weak, and he has never been weak, will never be weak.

The memories begin to come slower, drifting. Does he still function? He is suspended in time.

Memory: The librarian’s betrayal.

Memory: Dark Energon. The power of Unicron in his veins. He has it still, but something is wrong.

Memory: “…still function…”

Memory: Betrayal.

NOW: Pain.

NOW: Betrayal?

NOW: Starscream.

Chapter Text

Moving a second mech into quarters meant for one required slightly more effort than Prowl had expected. Prowl hadn’t had much experience with juveniles and hadn’t been prepared for the number of items needed to keep them educated and entertained. But he had diligently procured everything necessary to the health and welfare of a developing Cybertronian. There had been some things that couldn’t be acquired yet, however, such as quarters designed for a family. Bluestreak and Prowl made do, jammed into quarters intended for a single adult officer. Prowl, who required less rest than Bluestreak gave the young mech the bed and slept on a cot borrowed from Medical. Juveniles used downtime not just for rest and defragging but for their personality matrix to develop and compile. It was, therefore, crucial that Bluestreak be comfortable and get as much quality sleep as he could.

Prowl also theorized that having to sleep on a cot might make Bluestreak feel less than welcome, which was not correct. Despite base rumour, that Prowl was assigned to Bluestreak by Command, Prowl had agreed to foster the juvenile out of affection. He wanted what was best for Bluestreak. If that included sleeping on a cot, jammed into a smallish bedroom at ninety degrees to the actual bed, so be it.

The cot had initially been parallel to the bed, along the opposite wall. Prowl had moved it to reduce the time it took for him to respond to Bluestreak’s nightmares. Just a few nano-kliks could make the difference between being able to successfully soothe Bluestreak and Bluestreak waking up terrified and panicking.

Bluestreak’s soft cry of distress alerted Prowl in the depth of the night. Prowl was not quite awake even as he reached up to touch Bluestreak’s hand.

“Bluestreak, it’s Prowl,” he said quietly. “You’re here, in our quarters. It’s safe. You’re safe. Nothing can happen to you here. You’re with me.” He repeated reassurances until Bluestreak calmed and Prowl saw the glow of the younger mech’s optics.

Bluestreak gripped Prowl’s hand. “P-Prowl?”

“I’m here,” Prowl said gently. “I’m right here, Bluestreak.”

“They took you. I-I saw them take you.”

“You had a nightmare. We’re both safe in our quarters. You’re in your bed.”

Bluestreak curled in on himself. “It was really real. Not – not like the flashbacks but, Prowl, it was so real.”

Without letting go of Bluestreak’s hand, Prowl moved to sit next to him. Bluestreak relaxed, just a little bit.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Prowl asked. “Remember, you don’t have to.”

“I don’t, I don’t want to, I – “

“It’s alright,” Prowl said gently. “That’s alright. Just like we talked about.”

Bluestreak calmed a little. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Prowl repeated. Bluestreak didn’t let go of his hand and, sensing Bluestreak would shortly have something to add, Prowl quietly waited. It didn’t take long.

“When I was just a few deca-cycles old I had bad dreams – not bad like these are bad but nothing really bad had happened to me yet then, so I didn’t know they weren’t so bad? But, anyway, back then I thought they were just so scary and – well – “

“Go on,” Prowl encouraged, into the pause. Outwardly he was a calm, reassuring, comforting presence for Bluestreak. Inwardly, fury and sorrow for Bluestreak’s losses twisted at his spark. He wanted to fix it: he knew he could not. The damage was done, and all he could do now was mitigate it.

“C-creator and S-sator,” and it was one of the few times Prowl had heard him use those names, “let me come in and sleep between them. A-and then I knew they were there and I felt safe, and I didn’t need it all the time but maybe you could…?”

“Of course, Bluestreak.”

“Creator would lie facing the door,” Bluestreak volunteered as they resettled themselves. “It helped.”

Prowl was not wholly unaccustomed to sharing a bed, but it had been a long time. More than one partner had moved too close in the night and bumped or lain on one of his doors. That wasn’t painful, but it was irritating to be jarred out of sleep like that. Hopefully, Bluestreak would have a better sense of how to keep distance.

“Is there anything else?” Prowl wanted to know, once they’d arranged themselves. “To help you rest?” He didn’t know if Bluestreak would sleep again tonight, but hopefully, he would.

“No. I think I’m okay.” Bluestreak had stopped stammering and rambling, both good signs. “Goodnight, Prowl.”

“Good night, Bluestreak.”

Prowl waited to hear the soft little sigh Bluestreak always made when he dropped off before letting himself shut down again. 

Chapter Text

Jazz had spent the summer housesitting for a rich mech who lived in the wilds outside the Taigan Heights, on the cusp of the Limbranite Tundra. It should have been an easy gig. It would have been if it hadn’t turned out he had a housemate in the form of a dream-eating wight. Jazz didn’t know what would’ve happened if he’d been left alone with the wight, so good thing an ancient wizard had shown up to banish it.

Yeah, he’d been skipping over that part when he talked about his summer.

He also skipped over the part where the wizard, Prowl, had stayed for a few mega-cycles after the banishing. The wight had been the last of the preternatural creatures, according to Prowl, and now that it was gone the wizard wasn’t sure of his purpose. He didn’t know what he wanted.

Well, except Jazz. The way the mech watched him when Jazz played music made that super clear. Not that it wasn’t returned: Prowl was sternly handsome and quietly intense in a way Jazz hadn’t known he liked. But they’d both been feeling vulnerable, for different reasons, and nothing had happened. Prowl had left to give Jazz space – to give them both space – to clear their heads and promised to come find him ‘soon.’

Jazz’s housesitting gig was over, it was two deca-cycles into first term, and ‘soon’ hadn’t happened yet. He’d gotten a message letting him know Prowl’d made it safely to Nova Cronum. He’d sent one letting Prowl know he was safely back in Altihex. A package had arrived for him, care of the university’s administrative office, containing carefully wrapped antique sheet music for his instruments. Jazz didn’t know any of the songs, but Prowl had guessed right that he’d like them. As a courting gift (maybe?) it was one of the best. Jazz carefully transcribed them onto fresh writing foil, so he could carry the songs around and not risk damaging them. But there was no sign of Prowl.

Then, four deca-cycles in, Prowl appeared at Jazz’s door. Opening it, Jazz stared into intensely blue optics. All of Prowl’s unnerving focus was focussed on him, and Jazz did not mind one bit.

“Hello Jazz,” Prowl said. “How are you?”

Jazz stared at him blankly for a very long nano-klik before a response came to mind.

“Clearheaded,” Jazz said and grabbed for him.

The whoops and catcalls of Jazz’s fellow students as they passed by in the hall were no deterrent for either of them as they kissed. Prowl wanted this as much as Jazz, and merciful Primus did the wizard know how to kiss!

“Lovely,” Prowl murmured after, cradling Jazz’s jaw in his long-fingered hands. “Have dinner with me. Please.”

Dinner would be good. Normal. Fear and wight-free.

“Sounds good.” Jazz stole another kiss; Prowl made a pleased sound. “Lemme grab my guitar. I’ve been practicing the songs you sent. Thought you’d like to hear them.”

Prowl’s optics brightened, and he favoured Jazz with one of his rare smiles.

***

Prowl took Jazz to the restaurant on the ground floor of Prowl’s hotel. The hotel was only a few meta-cycles old. Jazz would’ve expected Prowl to pick something older, more – seasoned.

“This doesn’t seem like your kinda place,” Jazz commented as they waited on their orders.

“No.” Prowl looked around. “It’s very – modern. It’s quite surprising there’s a poltergeist in the basement.”

“Oh. That why you’re here?”

Prowl focused back on him, faintly frowning. “No. I’m here for you. The poltergeist was unexpected.”

“I meant in the hotel.”

“Ah. Again, no. I simply wanted to try something different.” Prowl went silent as their orders were delivered, then politely thanked the server. “I have been apart from the world for quite a while. I want to see what it’s like, now.”

“Trying to figure out where you fit?” Jazz offered.

“Yes.” Prowl flipped through the little box of additives on the table and selected one to add to his energon. “Though perhaps I needn’t change that much. Creatures such as the wight may be gone but entities such as the poltergeist, still exist. It has been some time, but I recall how to send them to Vector Sigma. We are not meant to stay here once our frames have greyed.”

“Gonna send the poltergeist,” Jazz paused not sure how to phrase it, “on?”

“Yes.”

“Want me to come with?” Jazz offered, not sure why. He’d had enough of weird critters with the wight, thanks. 

“Tell me what you’ve learned about poltergeists.”

“They throw things, make loud noises, sometimes they set fires or write things,” Jazz recited.

“Yes. Poltergeists have power, drawn from their environment, but little intelligence left to direct it. They cannot express themselves as they did in life, and therefore act in anger.”

Jazz frowned. “So, they’re not the whole spark? Just a part of it?” This was not the strangest conversation Jazz had had on a date – the mech who insisted tentacled organic beings secretly visited Cybertron using invisible ships and kidnapped unwary mecha driving on back roads stood out. With Prowl, talking about ghosts seemed utterly normal.

Then again, wizard.

“Perhaps. If anyone has found an explanation otherwise I’ve not encountered it.” Prowl shrugged. “It’s as good an explanation as any. One hopes they will be made whole in within Vector Sigma, or perhaps their fragments return to Primus.”

“’’Till all are one,’” Jazz quoted. He didn’t particularly believe, but…he was questioning a whole lot these days.

“Perhaps.” Prowl smiled. “Some things are beyond even the ken of wizards.

“To answer your original question, yes, I would like your company.”

***

Okay, so, sneaking into a basement to banish a poltergeist wasn’t where Jazz had expected this night to go. He couldn’t say he was entirely surprised though. Prowl just seemed like a person who found weirdness. Sneaking might not be the best term, either: Prowl just walked in as if he belonged, without happening to meet anyone. If anyone saw them on security cameras they didn’t see fit to respond.

“Is this place as creepy as I think it is?” Jazz wanted to know once they got into the basement. Ahead of them, something fell off a shelf, like a response. “Yup, guess so.”

“Unusual. They rarely begin to act out so soon.” Prowl glanced back at Jazz. “The wight spoke to you.”

“You thought I was someone’s apprentice. Maybe the musician thing is confusing them, too.”

“Not unreasonable.” A rattling and a distinctly pissed off noise sounded from further down the basement, in the unlit depths. Prowl looked in the direction of the sound. “Follow me. I need to find the focal point.”

“Sounds fun.” Jazz followed Prowl anyway. The lights down here were constant but dim, probably lit only for any employees who might have to come down here during the quiet night shift. After living with the wight, Jazz didn’t find the dim, haunted, basement frightening even though strange growling noises and items falling and being thrown were all around. A bit unsettling, yeah, but he knew Prowl’d keep him safe.

“Odd,” Prowl murmured. The wizard stopped, looking around.

“What?”

“Multiple foci.” Prowl frowned. “It’s…suppressing them? No. Feeding.”

“Feeding,” Jazz echoed. “Like there’s one big one yanking power from smaller ones?”

“Exactly like.” Prowl looked around, still ignoring the chaos that was increasing around them. “Two of them. They’re all close together.”

“So, are you going to take out the big one first or the little ones?”

A shelf rattled angrily next to them.

“The little ones. Else the primary poltergeist may, as it fights me, drain them to the point I cannot send them on.”

And some poor spark’d be incomplete. Maybe. “Yeah, that’d – the big one won’t figure out what you’re doing and drain them anyway, will it?”

“It is a risk,” Prowl agreed. A plate sailed out of nowhere and clattered at his feet. It didn’t even merit a glance. “If it happens I will attempt to bring a priest here if I can find one.”

“There’s a Temple downtown.”

“Those aren’t priests,” Prowl said, with disdain. “What you call priests in these days are little more than technicians, and more often than not corrupt.” A low, creepy, chuckle sounded off to their left. Prowl turned toward it. “This way.”

Something about the chuckle bothered Jazz on a professional level. The acoustics were all wrong for the space. He upped the gain on his audials and set a processor thread to run the received data through a couple of algorithms designed to clean up and enhance sound. He set that sound to be analyzed in the background, and anything Prowl said to be filtered through to central processing so he could respond.

Even Jazz knew when they reached the spot. Like most of the rest of the basement, it was a storage area, but the shelves here were empty, even dusty. That didn’t make sense because the rest of the shelves in the basement were full. This area felt unused, as if the staff didn’t like to come here.

“They’re very small,” Prowl murmured. If Jazz hadn’t been filtering he wouldn’t have heard it; the main poltergeist was snarling and banging in the walls. “I would say ‘frightened’ if they had that much awareness left. I need to calm them enough to heed me – perhaps I should take on the primary poltergeist first.”

The primary poltergeist protested by clawing the walls and smashing something. Jazz hoped they could get this done and get out before someone worked up the nerve to check that out.

So the little guys were scared. Jazz’s mentor had had a friend who’d asked Vector Sigma for a juvenile spark, one to nurture to adulthood, instead of an adult to teach to be part of society the way Jazz had been sparked. They’d crashed at Jazz’s home one night, and the juvenile’d had trouble sleeping ‘cause they were anxious in a new place. The friend had hummed quietly to them to lull them into recharge. Maybe that’d work here.

“Let me try something,” Jazz suggested. He still remembered the song the creator had used and began to hum it now.

He didn’t know at first if it got the little poltergeists’ attention, but it definitely got Prowl’s. He could feel the wizard’s scrutiny like a physical thing.

Didn’t make him want to stop, though.

The algorithm finished its analysis. The poltergeist’s noises included a level of infrasound. Maybe if they produced infrasound they’d respond to it? Jazz increased his vocal range to include the same level of infrasound just to see what would happen.

“Yes, continue that,” Prowl told him. “I have them.”

Jazz kept humming, adding to the song and playing with the melody as he went. The primary poltergeist calmed down too, still tapping in the walls and muttering words Jazz couldn’t make out. He recorded them to analyze later. Prowl was talking too, very softly, in Old High Cybertronian. Jazz recognized the language but didn’t know more than an occasional word.

“The final one,” Prowl said, after a quarter cycle. “Don’t stop, no matter what you hear.”

Jazz nodded and watched and hummed. He had the same sense of standing in a storm he’d had when Prowl banished the wight. Not as intense, but still. The noises and the muttering and the tapping got slower, softer, and finally faded without even a whimper. The basement felt different, lighter. Jazz guessed that meant the poltergeists were gone. Little fragments of sparks, maybe.

“Think they’ll be okay?” Jazz asked. Prowl turned to face him.

“Hopefully. They weren’t evil, or predatory, just confused and angry.” Prowl reached over and took Jazz’s hand. “I realize my methods of courtship may seem slow and strange in the modern world, but I promise you they don’t really involve entities and creatures. Those just seem to happen to me.”

“Yeah, well, lately they seem to be happening to me, too.” Jazz squeezed Prowl’s hand affectionately. “So you want to take it slow?”

“I think it best. I want you,” Prowl admitted frankly, making Jazz’s spark jump happily, “but we were both under stresses of different kinds when we met, and the end of the wight meant my life changed significantly. I need to make sure this is – that is, that we – “

Jazz squeezed Prowl’s hand again to reassure him. “’S’okay, Prowl. I get it. I can do slow.” Jazz took Prowl’s other hand and leaned in for a kiss. Slow, like Prowl’d asked for. “You are gonna take me back to your room though, right? I mean, I did promise to play for you.”

“Yes,” Prowl agreed. He lifted Jazz’s hand and brushed a kiss over the knuckles. “Thank you, Jazz.”

“You deserve it, Prowler.”

Chapter Text

Along with drag racing, drive-in movie theatres, and some fine-looking automobiles, one of the things Knock Out enjoyed about Earth was the roads. Well, the paved ones anyway. (Unpaved roads turned to mud too easily and let’s not speak of what gravel roads did to one’s finish.) Humans built networks of roads seemingly everywhere they went, even in places that almost never saw traffic. Kind of strange, considering they were usually in a hurry to go nowhere.

Still, Knock Out wasn’t about to complain. If you navigated just right, you could travel for planetary days without having to stop. Marvellous.

Chapter Text

First Aid knew hospitals. He knew them inside and out, both as a medic and occasionally – because this was a war – as a patient. He understood and believed in their purpose down to his very spark.

That didn’t stop abandoned hospitals being any less unnerving. An abandoned hospital on a deserted planet was even more so. Knowing that the war was over didn’t help.

Oh, he knew that sparks went back to the Well, ghosts weren’t real, and there was virtually nothing living on Cybertron any more. (He tried not to worry about that ‘virtually.’) He knew that it was necessary to scour facilities like hospitals for salvageable equipment and (less likely) supplies as part of the rebuilding effort. He knew that, as a medic, he was one of the best choices to conduct a search. His fellow Protectobots weren’t that far away and would burn rubber to get here at the first sign of trouble.

None of that was as comforting as he wanted it to be.

First Aid had started on the top level of the five-storey building and worked his way down, tagging useful items for the salvage crews. He tried to ignore the sensation that he was leaving a trail for anything – anyone – wanting to follow him. When he finished a floor, he went back through and double-checked for anything he might have missed on the first pass. Levels five down to three were normal, blue salvage tags and his boot prints in the dust and debris. Level two was different.

Floor two, and what First Aid had seen of level one, looked as if fighting had taken place in it. Part of level two, between the nurse’s station and a room with a secure access terminal looked as if it had caught fire. The fire suppression systems had done their job, but not before the panelling and part of the floor had become strangely warped, slick. They shone weirdly in what little light there was. Dust mixed with soot was all around the edges of the damage.

It was wrong. Hospitals were meant to be clean and safe, places of healing, or at least succour. Of course, people experienced pain, suffering, fear, grief, and loss here as well but ultimately hospitals should make patients and their loved ones feel secure. First Aid trailed his fingers over a scar of blaster fire, feeling a pang of sorrow for everyone who might have suddenly had that safety shattered. This hospital was in a sector that had been evacuated at some point during the war; he hoped it was before violence had invaded it.

A few rooms were too trashed by the consequences of an old battle for First Aid to safely enter. He labelled them with tags indicating they hadn’t been checked. That would let the salvage teams know to check them carefully for anything useful since they were better equipped to enter potentially unstable areas.  He looped back around on the final check when he was done and passed by the burned section again on his way out.

There were boot prints in the dust and soot. They weren’t his.

First Aid stopped dead, scanning systems flaring to life and searching for life signals. As a medic, his scanners were powerful enough they could even detect a mech with active stealth mods. They didn’t pick anything up, even when he ran them as high as he could and shoved nearly all his processing power behind interpreting the results. Still nothing. He looked back down at the prints hoping to follow them or at least get an idea where the mech might have gone. They started, and ended, with the burnt section. First Aid immediately looked up, searching for signs on the upper walls and ceiling. He wasn’t sure what those would be, exactly, but the section of the ceiling above the footprints looked the same as the ceiling above the rest of the hallway.

First Aid was unnerved, but he didn’t know what would give away someone sneaking along the ceiling. His scanners should have picked up even a stealthed mech, but it was possible there were mods his software didn’t recognize. It wasn’t a comforting thought. He pinged Hot Spot, relieved to get a return ping in short order: his team leader was nearby. First Aid explained what had happened and sent coordinates for his location.

‘Are you safe? Do you want one of us to come to get you?’ Hot Spot asked.

‘If someone wanted to harm me they could have. Maybe it was there before, and I missed it?’ First Aid suggested. ‘It’s pretty unsettling in here.’

‘That doesn’t sound like you. I want you to head to the rendezvous point, just in case.’ Hot Spot’s concern was apparent even without the markers on his glyphs. ‘Streetwise will meet you there. Keep the transmission open.’

‘What if there’s someone here and they’re hurt?’

‘I’m more concerned someone might be there and hurt you. Meet Streetwise and take him with you for your sweep of the first floor. We’ll review the memory of your walkthrough of the second floor later and see if the prints were there or not.’

Streetwise helped First Aid complete his search of the hospital. They didn’t see or hear anything else strange, and soon they headed back to Autobase. First Aid was worried and tense: worried because what if they had left someone back there who needed help, and tense because he was still creeped out.

Being back in their quarters, warm and brightly lit, helped him calm down, though he was still worried about the potential patient. Having his fellow Protectobots around him helped more.

First Aid linked up with Hot Spot for the promised memory review, using a level of hardline slightly more in-depth than a direct data transfer but nowhere near as deep as a full interface. He replayed the memory of walking through the second floor and approaching the burnt area and paused it.

First Aid…

I know. First Aid shivered, and Hot Spot put an arm around him. There’s nothing there.

Chapter Text

Jazz’s humming died down when Prowl’s focus switched to him. Prowl stepped inside Jazz’s personal space. Jazz didn’t mind one bit.

“Your voice,” Prowl murmured and kissed him ardently. Jazz responded, temperature rising.

“Frag, you’re good at that,” Jazz muttered, holding Prowl by the waist. “Room?”

“Yes, but - interfacing with me can be…intense.” Prowl reached down and threaded their fingers together. “I’ve processing power well above the average. You must be sure to tell me if you begin to be overwhelmed.”

“Yes,” Jazz promised. “Besides.” He grinned. “Maybe I’ll surprise you.”

Prowl’s smile got a mischevious edge. “Let’s see.”

Chapter Text

Prowl stood on the edge of devastation, looking out over what had been Praxus. Mecha and machinery were busy among the weathered, rusted, ruins. His sensors pinged him when Bluestreak drove up behind him, but he didn’t turn around.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said when the other mech transformed and stood next to him.

“I almost didn’t.”

Prowl put a hand on Bluestreak’s shoulder. “I’m glad you did.”

“Yeah. Do you think it will be the same?”

“No. But it will be.”

Bluestreak put a hand on Prowl’s shoulder in turn, and together they watched Nova Praxus rise.

Chapter Text

Bluestreak had been excited when Hound invited him to go camping that weekend in the Cable Jungles. It sounded fun, and he’d never been camping before. Bluestreak had been spending more time alone with Hound lately, and Bluestreak thought there might be something more than friendship there.

Maybe. Bluestreak hadn’t really dated before, and Hound was initially Prowl’s friend, but he’d always been nice and was only a couple of solar-cycles older than Bluestreak, so it wasn’t impossible.

Hound was patient with Bluestreak as they set up the shelter and secured their fuel high up in a bundle of cable-vines to keep it out of the reach of iron-bears. Bluestreak hadn’t set up or used a shelter before, and it was smaller than he’d imagined, especially since there were supposed to be three of them. But once they were in there, it was nice and cozy, and Bluestreak dropped off almost immediately on the sleeping mat he’d borrowed from Hound.

The next day Hound took him hiking, which Bluestreak had also never done before. It was a long trail, twisting through the jungle and finally looping back to their campsite. Bluestreak wasn’t used to walking so much because he preferred to drive, and he was drowsy by the time they finished their evening fuel.

“You okay there, Bluestreak?” Hound asked.

“I’m just not used to walking so much,” Bluestreak admitted. “Plus, we drove for a really long time yesterday.”

“If you can stay awake we might be able to see the aurora borealis,” Hound offered. “It’s the right time of year, and I picked a site with a clearing in the canopy. I know you like to look at the stars.”

Bluestreak did and often sat out on his family’s apartment’s balcony on clear nights trying to see them through the city’s light pollution. There wasn’t any light pollution out here, and the sky was velvet black with stars like bright points of crystal scattered over it.

“I brought some of those chrome-alloy cakes you like, too,” Hound added, offering Bluestreak the pack. Bluestreak accepted one with thanks, noting happily that it had aluminum filings, his favourite, sprinkled over the top. He didn’t think he’d ever told Hound that, but Hound must have been paying attention.

“Oh, but, I didn’t bring anything for you!” Bluestreak exclaimed. He went through the list of supplies he had brought wondering if there were any treat he could offer.

“You brought yourself, didn’t you?” Hound teased gently. He reached over and wrapped Bluestreak’s hand in his own. “Don’t worry about it, Blue. I wanted to treat you.”

“Oh…um…” Bluestreak stared down at their hands, for once without anything to say.

“Is this alright?” Hound asked softly, lightly squeezing Bluestreak’s hand. “Because it’s okay if it’s not.”

“Oh! Yes, yes, it’s alright, Hound,” Bluestreak babbled. “I just – well I kind of wondered if you were and I guess you are and – um, you know I haven’t really dated anyone before. If dating is what you want, I mean, I’d like it but – “ He stopped when Hound chuckled gently. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I like to listen to you.” Hound let go of Bluestreak’s hand so he could wrap an arm around his shoulders. “So. Tell me what you like about the stars.”

Chapter Text

Jazz had met Prowl, a wizard, over the summer when Jazz had been housesitting a remote place located on the edge of the Limbranite Tundra. Jazz had unknowingly been sharing the house with a wight, a kind of weird creature that fed on dreams, and Prowl had been hunting it. The attraction hadn’t been instant, but it had been mutual, although nothing had happened between them at the house. Prowl had followed up with a gift of ancient sheet music and followed that by appearing at Jazz’s door one day.

They’d tried to have a regular date by going to dinner in the restaurant of Prowl’s hotel. Turned out the hotel had a group of poltergeists in the basement. They’d worked together to banish them – Jazz humming to soothe the frightened, angry, spark-fragments, Prowl working magic to cross them over – and finished off the night with Jazz playing some of the songs Prowl had sent for him. Prowl wanted to take things slowly, and nothing more than some kissing had happened before Jazz left. That had been nearly a deca-cycle ago, and while they’d had a few hot-n-heavy makeout sessions, they hadn’t interfaced yet. Jazz was okay with that, though. Prowl was worth the wait.

Besides, Prowl’d asked Jazz to come with him to look at a house he wanted to buy, so the mech intended to stick around. It wasn’t the first house Prowl had looked at, but it was the first he’d invited Jazz to see.

‘Is it haunted?’ Jazz teased Prowl over comms as they drove there. It was further away from Jazz’s dorm than Prowl’s hotel had been but closer to the entertainment district.

‘I have only driven by, and taken a virtual tour, but I think not.’

‘Hmm…sparkeater nest in the cellar?’

‘Sparkeaters don’t nest.’

Jazz filed that one with ‘demons were locked away by Primus’ and ‘poltergeists may be fragments of sparks.’

 ‘One day I’ll suggest something, and you’ll tell me it doesn’t exist.’

‘Shall I include creatures that no longer exist, or would you prefer I limit myself to purely fictional ones?’ From anyone else that might’ve been sarcastic, but Prowl was genuinely asking. Endearing.

Jazz sent him a burst of adoring glyphs instead of an answer. Prowl responded affectionately, though shyly, as he usually was when things got emotional; Jazz found that endearing too. ‘Course, he felt that way about a lot of what Prowl did. Jazz knew he’d fallen for the wizard some time ago but hadn’t said anything yet. Prowl wanted to go slowly, so that’s what Jazz would do. Not to mention how much it’d hurt to say the words if Prowl didn’t say them back.

Still, asking for someone’s opinion on a house they were looking to buy seemed like a pretty major thing. Especially since Prowl hadn’t been inside it himself yet.

Prowl pulled off into the transformation lane, and Jazz followed suit. The house was an old Golden Age townhouse rising five stories high, flanked on either side by matching houses. As an energetic mech Jazz guessed was the realtor bounced down the steps toward them, Prowl took his hand. The simple declaration of togetherness made Jazz smile and, if the realtor hadn’t been speaking, he’d have kissed the wizard.

“Hi there,” chirped the realtor. “I’m Buydown.”

Buydown was a light pink-and-silver minibot who vibrated with energy, beaming up at them. Jazz accepted their identifying databurst – Buydown of Altihex, she/her pronouns, licensed realtor for ten meta-cycles – and returned his own.

“It’s so nice to meet you both,” Buydown continued. “I think you’re really going to like this one. It’s been empty for some time, and the owner is selling the house and contents both. They’re willing to close immediately and,” she lowered her voice conspiratorially, “I happen to know they’ll accept almost any offer. They really want to sell. It’s a buyer’s market with this one.”

“Thank you, Buydown,” Prowl said, attention shifting from her to the house’s façade. “Has the building been maintained while it has been untenanted?”

“Oh yes,” Buydown assured him. “It’s been regularly maintained and gets cleaned once a deca-cycle. If you decide to make an offer, I advise you to have it inspected by your own building inspector, of course.”

“Of course,” Prowl agreed. Jazz could practically feel Prowl’s interest shifting from Buydown to the house. “May we?”

“Sure thing!” Buydown waved them on. “I’ll wait in the entryway, just comm me if you have any questions.”

“Yes, of course,” Prowl said absently, in that way that told Jazz he was focusing on something most mechs wouldn’t pick up on.

‘What is it?’ Jazz asked over comms. Prowl glanced over at him with a questioning optic ridge raised. ‘You’ve got a look. Something’s here.’

‘Yes. In the house but – not attached to it. Not strong.’

‘Are we checking that out first?’

‘No. Tour the house normally. I don’t want Buydown to ask questions.’

The house was tall, narrow, and long and gave Jazz a sense of having stepped back in time. It looked like it hadn’t been changed since it was built. Jazz felt a little out of place; Prowl looked like he belonged.

“Feels empty,” Jazz murmured as they walked through the first floor. Not just like a house with no one in it but one that hadn’t been inhabited for meta-cycles. It wasn’t creepy. Just…empty.

“We leave traces of ourselves in the places we inhabit,” Prowl told him. “They fade over time. It’s their absence you feel. Does it bother you?”

Jazz shook his head. “No. Just…shouldn’t be empty, y’know?”

Prowl rubbed the side of Jazz’s hand with his thumb. “I know.”

The shape of the house, long and thin, meant that there were only a couple of rooms and a spacious landing on each floor. Everything was clean, untouched, poised. Drop cloths covered the furniture, mirrors, art, and the larger light fixtures. Still…

“Place’d look amazing all lit up and – and living,” Jazz mused as they looked through the second floor. Prowl was examining a piece of art on the wall in the entertainment room, lifting the corner of the drop cloth to peer at the side.

“You’d bring more than enough bright young things to enliven it.”

Jazz glanced back at him. Had Prowl just suggested Jazz and his friends party here? “Seriously? You wouldn’t mind?”

Prowl lifted Jazz’s hand and kissed it. “Of course not.” He nuzzled Jazz’s fingers affectionately, a gesture that told Jazz Prowl was comfortable in the house. “I want to show you something on the third floor.”

“The whatsit you’re looking for?”

Prowl shook his head. “No, but I suppose it could contain it.”

“Cryptic.”

“Wizard.”

Jazz laughed and wondered how a moment in a house abandoned thanks to a creepy mystical thing could feel so perfect.

When they set foot on the third-floor landing, Prowl’s attention locked on a drop cloth-draped rectangle hanging on the centre of the wall.

“Ah,” Prowl murmured. “Of course. Central.”

“So, haunted?” Jazz hedged, following Prowl over to the rectangle.

“No.” Prowl lifted the edge of a drop cloth to reveal a large antique mirror. “Cursed.”

Jazz made the mistake of looking in the mirror. The reflection was…wrong. It was too dark, and not because it was shadowed by the cloth. His image wore a faint sneer. Prowl’s features were cruel instead of stern. There was the faintest buzz of something slimy and unpleasant, like dirty oil, at the back of his mind.

“Cover it,” Jazz said in a low voice. Prowl dropped the cloth, obscuring the mirror. “What was that? What’s wrong with it?”

“It shows you your worst self. It influences you, slowly over time, to be more on edge, more aggressive, hurtful.” Prowl rubbed the fingertips of the hand that had touched the cloth with his thumb as if checking for some kind of residue. “Early Shockwave, I think.”

“Shockwave?”

“Mm.”

Jazz frowned. “I’ve heard that name.”

“He professes to be a scientist, now. Occult science, perhaps.” Prowl reached out and grasped the mirror, cloth and all, by the top of the frame. He lifted it off its hangers and set it on the floor, facing the wall. “I’ll take it with us when we go to the next floor, where the living quarters are. Cleansing curses can be messy and is best done in a wash rack.”

“No. Do it now.” Jazz didn’t know why he was so sure it had to be done immediately, but he was.

Prowl gave him a searching look, then nodded. “Very well.”

Prowl picked up the mirror, swathed in its drop cloth, and headed to the fourth floor.

“Which way?” he asked Jazz when they reached the fourth-floor landing.

Jazz had no idea why Prowl was asking him, but… “Right.”

The washrack was large and luxurious, freshly cleaned with gleaming titanium and crystal fittings and presumably un-cursed mirrors. Despite being unnerved by the mirror, Jazz couldn’t help noting that the shower stall and the oil bath were big enough to fit both he and Prowl together.

Prowl removed the drop cloth and set the mirror in the shower stall. He ‘spaced a bottle of clear golden oil and poured a thin line of it along the top of the frame, making sure trails slid down the sides. Prowl brought out a small brush and added a line of oil along the bottom of the frame, completing the circuit. Jazz felt the room lighten, even though the reflection in the mirror seemed darker. He guessed Prowl had contained the curse. He didn’t ask, yet, though: he didn’t want to interrupt Prowl.

Prowl was brushing a spiral of glyphs onto the mirror, working in from the edge to the centre. Jazz recognized the glyphs as belonging to the same alphabet as the ones etched on Prowl’s rifle. Jazz didn’t know that alphabet from anywhere else.

Prowl finished the spiral and sealed and ‘spaced the oil. “There will be a flash,” he said and flattened his palm against the centre of the glass.

Prowl spoke, commanding. White-gold light flashed, and the glyphs burst briefly into flame, burning the oil cleanly away. Once the fire died away, Prowl carefully rinsed down the mirror, cleaned the brush, and made sure any hint of oil or ash was washed away. He even gave the frame and glass a quick polish once the mirror was dried, probably to hide that they’d done anything with it.

“Better?” Prowl asked, standing.

Jazz looked in the mirror again. With the angle, he could just barely see their faces, but the reflection showed them as it should.

“Much better.” He kissed Prowl’s cheek, felt his wizard smile. “So, what was it you wanted to show me downstairs?”

They went back down, pausing to hang the mirror back up, and Prowl showed him to a room overlooking the rear terrace. The room was long with large windows and walls covered in soft tiles. It took Jazz a second to realize that they were acoustic tiles. The covered furniture had confused him at first, but the tiles gave it away.

“You always say it can be difficult to book practice rooms,” Prowl, standing behind him, said. “I thought, perhaps…”

“It’s perfect,” Jazz said, already picturing what he could do with a private music room. “You weren’t considering the house just for,” me, “this, were you?” he finished. That would be just too big. That was a conjunx level thing. That was way faster than Prowl’d given any hint he wanted to go.

“No, not just. It is why I wanted to see the house in person with you.”

“Not to look for cursed stuff?”

Prowl laughed softly and turned Jazz around for a kiss. “You know, before you, I always had to hunt for things like that.”

“Calling me bad luck?”

“No.” Prowl brushed the backs of his fingers over Jazz’s cheek. Prowl wasn’t smiling, exactly, but there was a softness to his stern features. “No, far from it.”

“Prowl…”

“I know.” Prowl’s hand slid across the back of Jazz’s neck, drawing him closer. “Shall I ask Buydown to present my offer to the owner?”

“Yeah,” Jazz agreed, held by Prowl’s gaze. “I’d like that.”

Jazz was pretty sure Prowl commed Buydown before he’d even finished speaking. Prowl didn’t get that slightly unfocused look in his optics so many other mecha did, but there was something. Probably no one else would’ve even picked it up, but Jazz spent a lot of time looking at Prowl.

“She tells me she can complete the closing in seven mega-cycles if the seller accepts, and she is virtually certain he will.” Prowl finally claimed the kiss he’d been angling for, sighing in pleasure into Jazz’s mouth.

“Gonna feel good to have your own place again?” Jazz asked when the kiss ended, idly tracing patterns on Prowl’s armour. Prowl hadn’t let him go, and Jazz was okay with that.

“Very.” Prowl was, very lightly, stroking Jazz’s back with his fingertips, up and down, over and over. “Perhaps, when I move in, you would stay the night?”

Jazz felt his temperature rise a couple degrees at the idea and put his arms around Prowl’s neck. “Love to, darling. Any night you want.”

Chapter Text

“You want to do what?” Jazz stared at Prowl.

“Bite you,” Prowl repeated. “As part of foreplay. Not to enough draw energon, but enough to mark.” Prowl traced the line of Jazz’s throat with his optics. “We don’t have to, but I would like to.”

“For the pain?”

“For the trust.”

That made a difference. Jazz considered.

“Okay, maybe?” Jazz said slowly. “But first show me what you’re gonna do so I can say ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ I want to know what it’s gonna be like.” He tipped his head back, exposing his throat.

Prowl smiled and bared his fangs.

Chapter Text

“Were you followed?” Eilta-1 hissed, scanning the mouth of the alley and the street beyond for any hint of pursuit.

Moonracer shook her head, doubled over her injury trying to patch it. “I don’t – what?”

“Were you followed?” Elita repeated, moving so she could watch the street and assist Moonracer at the same time.

“No, I–I didn’t see any sign of Shockwave or his drones.”

“Then we’ll meet the others at the rendezvous as planned.” Elita injected a painkiller into Moonracer’s lines.

“Then what?” Moonracer asked, sighing in relief.

“We repair, gather resources. Then,” Eilta smiled grimly, “we hunt.”

Chapter Text

The first thing Jazz did after awakening on Earth was secure Prowl inside their quarters. Prowl made it just inside the doors before crashing to his knees. Jazz held onto him all the way down.

“The stasis was too long, wasn’t it?” Jazz asked, already knowing the answer. He’d been fine, but Prowl…

“Yes,” Prowl gritted out. “Jazz…Jazz, I’m hungry. Put me back. Make Ratchet put me back into stasis.”

“I can’t,” Jazz said, regretting it. “Prime’s gonna need his tactician, and sooner rather than later. Can you hold on ‘til we can get some energon processed for you?” The regular energon stores for the crew should have survived, but Prowl’s specially processed fuel, which mimicked the fuel drawn from the lines of a living mech, was more volatile and wouldn’t have lasted this long.

“No, it’s taking over. I can – I can feel it. Please.” Prowl’s fingertips transformed into claws and dug at the floor. “Please, I’m so hungry.”  His fangs transformed out. One of them sliced his lip; he licked his own energon and whined needfully at the taste.

Jazz couldn’t stand seeing his lover like this, never mind the dangers of Prowl going feral, let alone on an unfamiliar world with who knew what kind of indigenous life forms. It would be a disaster whether Prowl could feed on them or not. Without thinking twice, Jazz held his wrist out.

“Here. Drink from me.” He had more than enough. Teletraan-1 had refuelled him when it repaired him, though it hadn’t been able to do that for Prowl. Unlike his lover, Jazz could use regular energon.

“I can’t. I-I might not be able to stop.” But Prowl was staring at Jazz’s wrist, one clawed hand coming up to lock around Jazz’s arm, to trap his prey.

“I’ll make you stop if I have to,” Jazz promised. He put his other hand on the back of Prowl’s neck. “Do it. I ain’t afraid of you, Prowler.”

Prowl whimpered and pulled Jazz’s wrist closer, licked it to coat it in a numbing agent. Prowl was visibly torn between his two natures, and it was clear which one was going to win. “Maybe you should be.”

Jazz pushed his wrist closer to his lover’s lips. “Maybe, but I ain’t. Do it, lover.”

A tremble ran through Prowl’s frame. He was going to yield to his hunger any nano-klik now. “Jazz. My Jazz. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Jazz said softly, and watched Prowl’s fangs sink into his armour, piercing the fuel line beneath.

Prowl drank deep, the first pull so fast and rough Jazz could feel the fuel being pulled through his lines. He tightened his grip, fractionally, on the back of Prowl’s neck; Prowl growled but did ease up slightly. Via the indicator on his HUD, Jazz watched his energy levels steadily dropping. As they fell, Prowl’s posture and vocalizations became more mech-like and less mechanimalistic. He straightened up, drank steadily but not greedily, and recovered enough to pull himself free just as Jazz’s energy levels hit fifty percent.

“Enough,” Prowl gasped, fangs and claws transforming back to normal with an effort. “Enough, I can – it’s enough.”

Jazz already had a patch in hand and slapped it over the puncture marks, cutting off the scent of living fuel as well as any lingering bleeding. The patch sealed itself automatically, and his self-repair would have it absorbed in no time.

“I’m okay,” Jazz soothed his lover, pulling Prowl in close, so the tactician’s head rested on his chest. Prowl clung, pressed tight so he could hear Jazz’s systems running steadily, reassuringly. “I’m fine. I’ve got enough. Topped up downstairs: everyone was so happy and relieved to be online again it was easy. Just had to walk through the crowd.”

“Didn’t hurt you?”

“Nah.” The bites would probably itch a little later as they healed. He didn’t point that out.

“Mm. Good.” Prowl pressed a kiss right over Jazz’s spark. “Wouldn’t hurt you.”

Jazz stroked his lover’s helm. “Never have. ‘Sides, you let me feed off you all the time.”

Prowl relaxed, wrapping his arms around Jazz’s waist. “Sometimes I wonder if it would be easier if I were like you.”

“Sometimes I think it’d be easier if I were like you. Ain’t easy to find good feelings in a war like this.” Jazz could use any emotions but preferred positive ones. Prowl just needed specialized energon or a donor. Jazz could supplement himself with regular energon but using only that would eventually slow his systems, and he’d still feel hungry.

Prowl resettled, fitting their frames together more comfortably. They had been in stasis, but stasis wasn’t a complete shutdown. Miniscule amounts of power and fuel were still used to ensure everything stayed in working order. Their systems wanted to resynchronize. They didn’t have a lot of time right now, but this would do until they could grab a cycle or two together.

“Ah, that’s nice,” Jazz sighed, letting Prowl’s contentment at being close fill him. “Wish we had more time, love, but Prime really does need us. Later, though. You can bite me for fun reasons.”

Prowl chuckled, finally really back to himself. “I’ll hold you to that.” 

Chapter Text

Prowl arrived at the firing range, promptly, of course, just as Bluestreak’s training session finished. Bluestreak was still talking to his instructor but saw Prowl and trotted over, still a little awkward with his new, adolescent, upgrades. The upgrades hadn’t really settled yet but Prowl, who had been sparked as an adult, had been told that was normal. Juveniles maturing, upgrading their armour and alts, all normal. Still, Prowl missed the feel of Bluestreak’s lanky juvenile frame snuggling up to his even as he was proud of the adult Bluestreak was becoming.

Prowl was confused over his conflicting emotions – Bluestreak was maturing as he should, so why did Prowl regret he was no longer a young juvenile? – but a check of the literature he’d downloaded upon adopting Bluestreak indicated this was normal for a parent as their creation matured. Prowl had rechecked and checked again, but even though it seemed too irrational to be correct, he could find no indication otherwise.

Entering adolescence also meant that Bluestreak was mature enough to begin exploring potential careers. Once, that would have been variants of whatever was available to the caste he’d been sparked into. (Bluestreak had never said which one that was, and Prowl hadn’t asked. Bluestreak’s life before the Fall of Praxus was not a taboo topic by any means, but it was Bluestreak’s to bring up.) Prowl didn’t mourn the demise of the caste system, but Cybertron being overtaken by civil war meant Bluestreak’s choices were limited in different ways. While Prowl trusted Bluestreak to choose wisely and fully intended to support his creation’s decision, he hoped it would be something safe.

Prowl didn’t want to send Bluestreak to the front lines.

“Hi, Prowl!” Bluestreak was talking even before he came to a stop. “Guess what I got to try today!”

Prowl didn’t have to guess. He’d insisted on being given a copy of Bluestreak’s lesson plan.

“Rifles, correct?” There was always a chance that Moonracer had altered the plan. She was an excellent sharpshooter and a surprisingly decent instructor, but she could be impulsive. So could Bluestreak, which was probably one of the reasons they got along.

“Yup! I hit the target dead center every time, too. Just like I did with blasters.”

Prowl got a sinking feeling: he forced himself to look and sound supportive. “That’s very impressive, Bluestreak.”

“It’s more than impressive,” Moonracer said enthusiastically, coming up behind Bluestreak. “It’s incredible! Bluestreak told me he’d never even held a rifle before today. He’s got a real talent.”

You were supposed to nurture your creation’s talents, Prowl remembered. Of course, that advice had been written by civilians during peacetime. Prowl ran through several possible responses, looking for an appropriately encouraging-yet-unbiased one, finally settling on, “did you have a favourite?”

Now Bluestreak looked a little shy, something Prowl normally didn’t associate with his gregarious youngster.

“Not quite?” Bluestreak offered. “Can we talk about that later?”

“But I thought you liked the sniper rifles?” Moonracer asked, looking confused. “You spent the longest with them.”

“Um…”

“We can discuss it whenever you’re ready, Bluestreak,” Prowl said firmly, but not ungently. “You need only let me know.”

Moonracer gave him a look that as good as said he was being unsympathetic and Prowl bit back a sigh, knowing that rumours about him being cold would start to circulate again. That was a minor annoyance, however, and not worth the stress it might cause Bluestreak to be forced to talk about something he apparently wasn’t ready to discuss yet. Granted, the caution about letting Bluestreak bring things up in his own time had been about his post-traumatic stress, but the literature also stressed consistency.

Bluestreak was relieved, and that was all that counted anyway. “Thanks, Prowl.”

“You are welcome, Bluestreak,” Prowl said, touching his creation’s arm. “Come, now, it’s time to go home.”

“Can we race?” Bluestreak asked, swiftly cheering up.

“Within acceptable speed limits, yes,” Prowl agreed.

He might have given Bluestreak a head start, but if no one noticed Prowl wasn’t telling.

***

Bluestreak decided the time to discuss his preference in firearms was fifteen kliks before he was supposed to go to bed. Adolescence apparently had not changed some things.

“So, Prowl, it turns out that I really do like sniper rifles, and I know you don’t want me to fight, and I don’t either – I hate to fight I really don’t want to – but you said that sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to because it’s necessary and – um – “

Bluestreak gestured as he spoke. Prowl caught Bluestreak’s hands and held them gently between his own. It had the desired effect, and Bluestreak stopped, cycled air through his cooling systems, and started again, more slowly.

“I know you don’t want me on the front lines,” Bluestreak said, not quite meeting Prowl’s optics. His entire posture said he knew he was saying something his creator would rather not hear. “I’d rather not be there either. I don’t want to fight, but the Decepticons destroyed Praxus, they’re destroying Cybertron, and I have to be part of stopping them. I have to, Prowl.”

“I understand.” Prowl did understand. It was what had brought him to the Autobots. It was what had, before Bluestreak entered his life, kept him going after Praxus’ destruction. “You’re right, I don’t want you to have to fight. I want to keep you safe. But, however you choose to contribute, you have my support. Do you want to be a sniper?”

“I think so? I mean, I’m pretty sure. I did like the sniper rifles. They just,” Bluestreak shrugged, “felt right, you know? I know it means more upgrades and learning more math and stuff like wind resistance and all that. But I really want to at least try it out. Moonracer said Crosshairs takes students and she could arrange something for me if that’s okay with you?”

“We’ll talk to Moonracer at your next lesson and see what we can work out,” Prowl promised.

“Okay. Thanks, Prowl.” Bluestreak didn’t draw away. Prowl could tell just by looking at him he wasn’t finished and gave his hands an encouraging squeeze. “Prowl?”

“Yes, Bluestreak?”

“Thanks for listening to me. Not just now, I mean all the time. I know I talk a lot and some people think it’s too much sometimes, but you’ve always listened to me and I just,” Bluestreak gave a little shrug. “I really appreciate it.”

“I’ll always listen, Bluestreak. No matter what.” Prowl bumped their forehelms together affectionately, seeing from his body language Bluestreak was ready for a change of subject. “Why don’t you treat yourself to a rust stick before you go to bed?”

It worked; Bluestreak nudged him back. “You know I’m not a juvenile any more, right?”

“You will always be my juvenile,” Prowl corrected fondly. “Go on.”

Bluestreak went, getting his rust stick and one for Prowl, then went to bed, waving goodnight to Prowl. It was only when Prowl was sure Bluestreak was in his room for the night that he let his shoulders sag. He tried to tell himself that Bluestreak was safe now and worrying about what the future might bring was irrational.

It didn’t help.

Chapter Text

Jazz loved empty theatres. Oh, sure, he loved them more when they were full, and a performance was in full swing, but there was just something about ‘em when he was the only mech there. It was an eerie, melancholic feeling, of a place that should have been full but was empty.

Today, he’d slipped into the oldest theatre on campus, which was unlocked but rarely used, just to have a look around before the rest of his Acting III class showed up for rehearsal. Their class’s year-end performance was usually in one of the two larger halls, but this year one of those halls was shut down for restoration. The remaining one had gone to the Acting IV class.

The theatre they would use was small, maybe five hundred seats or so. The acoustic panelling along the walls was elegant and subtle, the industrial fabric softened with the years. Jazz tapped it: clean, not dusty. The seats were slightly broader and deeper than modern ones: he sat down in one and wriggled, testing. Nice. He tipped his head back and stared up at the ceiling, which was high, arched, and richly decorated. He wanted to run his fingers over the mouldings, examine the murals high, high, above the stage, to turn on the massive chandelier and watch the crystals glow. Sadly, he only had so much time if he wanted the place to himself while he explored and there were still the boxes and the balcony to visit.

Jazz poked through the boxes, cheerfully ignoring the ‘off limits’ signs, then swung back through the lobby to get to the balcony. He tapped a quirky little rhythm on the handrail as he strode up the ramp to the balcony, idly thinking that this was the kind of place Prowl would like. The balcony was deep and steep and featured the same seats as below and, of course, the marvellous ceiling.

He wandered back out through the balcony entrance opposite the one he’d entered and noticed a door marked ‘Employees Only.’ Reasoning that as a future performer in this space he qualified as an employee, he tried the door and found it unlocked.

Curious now, Jazz followed the narrow, undecorated corridor as it looped along and behind the balcony. It led to another door, also unlocked, and Jazz opened it to find a control booth-slash-projection room. Two-dee and holo movies and live theatre in the same space. Cool.

A cabinet along the right-hand wall of the room held unused equipment and a series of data slugs that, given the amount of dust, Jazz devoutly hoped were not also mecha. Nothing else in the room was that dusty and Jazz wondered why. He examined the tech in the room, a mix of antiquated and – well, it was a university theatre, so, less antiquated equipment, then circled back round to the cabinet. Without opening the cabinet, which had a simple mechanical lock, he skimmed the titles etched on the sides of the data slugs. He recognized them all as classics, except one. That one was down in the bottom right-hand corner, slightly larger and older-looking than the others.

Jazz had been housesitting over the summer when he had met Prowl, a wizard who was hunting a weird creature that fed on dreams Jazz had unknowingly been sharing the house. Prowl had destroyed the wight, then stayed a few days at the house. Nothing had happened between them at the house despite their intense mutual attraction. Jazz had gone back to school, Prowl had sent a courting gift, then showed up on Jazz’s doorstep without warning, providing the best surprise of Jazz’s life. They’d begun seeing each other, taking things slow. Prowl had recently bought a house and was due to move in – and spend the night with Jazz for the first time! – two mega-cycles from now.

The dinner date had involved banishing a noise of poltergeists in the basement of Prowl’s hotel. The house had had a cursed mirror that had driven the previous occupants away, and Prowl had cleansed it during his and Jazz’s viewing of the house. Jazz wasn’t even surprised, at this point, to see a glyph from what he called Prowl’s Wizard Alphabet etched into the older-looking data slug. He took an image capture and fired up his comm suite.

‘Hey, babe…’

***

Jazz’s class was mid-rehearsal when Jazz noticed Prowl sitting in the middle-back of the orchestra level. The scene his class was rehearsing was only halfway finished so Jazz couldn’t acknowledge him yet, but Jazz was very aware of being watched. It wasn’t his first time in front of an audience so he shouldn’t have been, but, well, this was Prowl.

“Who’s that in the seats?” Crosscut wanted to know when the teacher/director told them to break for the day.

“That’s Prowl,” Pulse answered before Jazz, who’d been answering a question from Chorale, could. “You know, the weird dude Jazz is seeing?”

“Oh, didn’t know what he looked like.” Crosscut looked appraisingly out at Prowl, then turned back to Jazz. “He’s not a student, is he?”

“Nope.” Jazz didn’t offer any more information than that. Honestly, he wasn’t sure what to tell people about Prowl. ‘Wizard’ was right out and he didn’t know enough about Prowl’s past to offer anything else.

“He seems intense,” Chorale commented. “Is it serious?”

“Yeah,” Jazz said, watching Prowl rise and walk toward the stage. “It’s pretty serious. I’ll see you all tomorrow, okay?”

Jazz hopped down from the stage and was greeted with a quick smile and a sweet, chaste, kiss.

“Hello Jazz,” Prowl said warmly, taking Jazz’s hands. Prowl glanced up at the stage, where a half-dozen students were pretending not to watch them. “Pulse, Chorale.” He hadn’t been introduced to the others. “…Jazz’s friends.”

A small chorus of ‘hey’s and a ‘heya, Prowl’ answered him, and he seemed to think that was enough, transferring his attention back to Jazz.

“I didn’t expect you to come by so soon,” Jazz said. Prowl tilted his head curiously.

“You called me,” he said simply, as if that were reason enough for him to drop everything and come to Jazz. The thought that maybe it was made Jazz’s spark spin just a little faster.

“So I did,” Jazz agreed. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

They were halfway across the balcony when Prowl murmured, “hm, interesting,” for no discernable reason.

“What is?”

“The energies.”

Okay then. Prowl had that abstracted air that said he thought he’d explained everything. Jazz thought, and not for the first time, that Prowl had spent way too long in the wilds alone.

“Elaborate on that for me, darling?” Jazz prompted.

“Surely you can feel it.” Jazz could tell Prowl was frowning, even though his lover was behind him. “You’re a musician.”

It wasn’t the first time Prowl had connected Jazz being a musician with magic or the supernatural. Best Jazz could tell, Prowl thought he should – or did – have some sort of increased awareness because of it. But if that were the case, shouldn’t Jazz have been picking up this stuff even before he’d met Prowl? It didn’t make sense.

“Prowl, m’mech, one day we are gonna have to sit down so you can explain whatever it is you think is supposed to be going on with me.” Jazz opened the ‘Employees Only’ door and headed for the control booth.

“Yes, of course,” Prowl answered absently. Jazz glanced back and saw the wizard running his fingers over the wall, then rubbing his fingertips together and frowning at them. It was as though he were checking for dust or-or residue of some kind and Jazz had seen him do that before.

“Prowl,” Jazz said slowly, putting things together and getting a sinking feeling as they approached the control booth door, “did something happen here?”

“Yes. Something opposite to this building’s purpose.”

“What – “ Jazz broke off and thought on that for a second. The building was a theatre, designed to generate energy and provoke emotions in the audience. It was about creating an experience for the audience and the actors, unifying them in it. So something had happened to…restrict that somehow? He changed the question he’d been about to ask. “What could have done that?”

“I’m unsure. It was quite some time ago.”

Jazz’s thoughts went back to the old-style data slug he’d called Prowl here over. “Maybe eighteen thousand meta-cycles?” he asked as he let them into the control booth.

“Approximately, yes.” Prowl zeroed in on the cabinet with the data slugs as soon as he was through the door. He crossed the room, crouched down in front of it and stared at the data slug etched with the Wizard Alphabet glyph. “Is there a key?”

“Don’t see any, but…” Jazz did see a tool chest. It was small, probably just used for minor repairs, but it had a couple of small pieces of stiff wire in it. “Gimme a nano-klik. My mentor taught me this.”

Jazz slid the wires into the cabinet lock, which was hardly high security, and picked it. Just where Half-step had acquired this skill Jazz wasn’t sure and had never asked. His mentor had a lot of skills and contacts you wouldn’t expect a piano player to have and he’d passed them on to Jazz.

“Thank you, dearspark,” Prowl said, petting Jazz’s leg affectionately. The wizard had been getting handsy lately, and Jazz liked it. Prowl picked up the data slug between thumb and forefinger and examined it. He read off the glyph: “Recondantur.”

Jazz’s Ancient High Cybertronian wasn’t stellar, but he’d done some reading in his spare time and recognized the word. “Means ‘locked away’ or ‘stored,’ doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

 “Is that thing connected to what you picked up in the hall?”

“Perhaps.” Prowl seemed to understand that he wasn’t explaining things sufficiently because he elaborated. “I am trying to determine that right now. It’s – difficult to explain, and I hesitate to speak before obtaining certainty of at least ninety-five percent.

“Of course, I am more than capable of simultaneous conversation and analysis. I’m simply unaccustomed to having to include another when I work.”

Yeah, Jazz’d noticed. “Okay, and I get that, but if you could just, I guess, tell me when you’re analyzing or something instead of going all non-verbal on me?”

“Yes, of course.” Prowl touched Jazz’s hand by way of apology. “But to answer your question more firmly, yes, I believe this is connected to what I picked up in the hall. This device has been used as containment for more than mere data, then locked away. Most would never even notice it was there.”

As it had been for eighteen thousand meta-cycles. Jazz had a horrible thought. “That data slug – that isn’t a mech, is it?”

Prowl stood, still studying the data slug intently. “No. It has always been inanimate. However – “ Prowl, surprisingly, hesitated and glanced over at Jazz. “This will upset you, and I am sorry, but you did ask me to explain things.”

“Go on,” Jazz said, slowly.

“It may contain a mech. As, for lack of a better term, data.”

“But,” Jazz frowned, “there’s no way a spark fits in there. I mean, is it just a copy of someone’s mind?”

“Not precisely. I think it may contain the entirety of a mech – frame, spark, and all. Digitized, for lack of a better term.”

Jazz paused on that one for a bit, then gave up trying to figure it out. “Mech, no offence meant, honestly, but magic is weird.”

Prowl laughed softly, unoffended. “You aren’t wrong.”

“So, how do we check and see if it’s – “ Jazz waved a hand at the data slug. “Someone.”

“I need a way to safely scan the data. The prison itself may contain the key.”

“Not going to plug it into your own systems, I hope.”

Prowl shook his head. “No. I will try a standard terminal. The slug may be old, but I believe the connectors are still standard.”

“There’s a terminal in the other corner we can use,” Jazz told him. “Hope we don’t fry it – though better it than you. What if it doesn’t work?”

“Then I’ll take it to my workshop, once that is set up, and attempt to determine the contents using more esoteric methods.” Prowl walked over to the terminal, brushed some dust from it – the cleaning drones hadn’t exactly been doing an outstanding job – and switched it on. “While I’d rather free whoever is in there, if that is the case, sooner rather than later, three mega-cycles in eighteen thousand meta-cycles won’t make a difference. But I don’t believe that will be necessary.”

“Hope not.”

The terminal booted up slowly as if it were protesting its use, but finally, grudgingly, yielded a user interface. Prowl plugged in the data slug and waited for the terminal to cough up the filenames. Jazz figured Prowl would be doing his thing for a bit, so he wandered over to the booth’s window and looked out over the theatre. He could see the whole balcony, the stage, and the first couple of rows of the orchestra level. Crosscut, Downbeat, and Chorale were sitting in the front rows, leaning close together and chatting. Well, maybe more than that, given the way Crosscut was leaning into Downbeat’s personal space and Chorale was running her fingers over his chest. Crosscut and Chorale were together and, if Downbeat played his cards right, about to put the lucky mech in the middle of an enjoyable sandwich indeed. Jazz and Prowl hadn’t had the ‘want to play with others too?’ conversation yet but Jazz had a feeling Prowl was the monogamous type. Time enough for that later. Jazz was enjoying the ‘focused on/can’t keep my hands off you’ phase right now.

“Jazz?”

“Yeah, babe?” Jazz asked, going back over to Prowl. He rubbed the back of the wizard’s neck, absently, just for the feel of Prowl’s frame under his fingers.

“I’m still unsure of who or what may be imprisoned in the device,” Prowl told him, “but I don’t believe it to be harmful. I think I can release it quite easily. I’ve encountered this form of magic before. Not in this medium but the theory should be the same. Can you operate the projector?”

“Yeah, should be able to.”

Jazz preferred his performance art live, but he’d had a basic film theory class first year that had covered the equipment. He took the data slug from Prowl and went to examine the projector. Looked simple enough: turn on the projector, plug in slug, press ‘play,’ sit back. There was a timer option too.

“Hey, want me to delay the start of this by two kliks or so. We can get out to the auditorium before it starts, in case anything comes up you need to handle.” Jazz offered.

“Yes, very good. Thank you, darling.”

Before he got the projector running and the movie ready, Jazz looked out the window again to check on his classmates. Down in the seats Chorale slid into Downbeat’s lap and Crosscut wrapped an arm around Downbeat’s shoulders from behind and murmured something to him. A half klik passed and, just as Jazz was beginning to wonder if he’d have to find a way to get them out lest he and Prowl see a different show than the one they were planning, Downbeat surged to his feet with a laughing Chorale in his arms. Downbeat set her down on her feet, and the three of them headed out, arms wrapped around each other.

Good. Prowl could be difficult enough to explain on his own, Jazz didn’t want to explain why ‘you and your sweetspark disappeared upstairs and a few kliks later a movie did something super weird.’

Jazz set the movie to start in five kliks, and they went back down to the orchestra level, settled into seats about halfway back. Not the way he’d pictured their first movie date but not exactly surprising.

“I’m going to focus on the film,” Prowl explained as it began. “I think playing it should release the trapped being, but I have seen instances where assistance was required.”

“Thanks,” Jazz said, for the explanation. Prowl stroked Jazz’s fingers once with one of his then fell still and silent.

The movie looked strangely flat even for a two-dee flick, and the colours were surprisingly muted. Jazz didn’t get what could make it look like that but now wasn’t the time to ask. It seemed like it was shot from the perspective of someone looking for something. Someone? It looked like they were in an alley, or a narrow hallway with a high ceiling, Jazz couldn’t tell. Either way, it looked like they were in a t-shaped junction because another alley ran perpendicular to the one the camera or mech was standing in. There was no sound, which was weird. Even experimental movies usually had some form of audio.

The scene stayed the same for a long klik, then the mech, if that’s whose viewpoint they were seeing, seemed to shift slightly, just a tiny change in the framing of the picture. The shadow of a small mech, smaller than a minibot, appeared, crossing the t-junction. A black-and-white mini-cassette in root mode dashed into the t-section, optics wide with fear. They were running too fast and too loud for someone being hunted and made the mistake of pausing to check down the alley. The camera seemed to zoom in on them – maybe the mech getting closer to the little guy – and the mini-cassette held up its hands as if to ward them off.

Prowl got up, darting down the aisle and vaulting up on the stage. He reached – Jazz reset his optic feed in disbelief, but no, Prowl really had reached into the film. The wizard grasped the mini-cassette by the hand and pulled.

The mini-cassette stumbled, but Prowl caught and steadied them, helping them to sit on the edge of the stage. The movie stopped, no fade-out or credits, just quit. Jazz ran up to the stage and ‘spaced a spare cube of energon, handing it to the little mech, who was visibly swaying.

“Hey there,” Jazz said gently. “Easy. Here…fuel up.” He didn’t know if the mech needed fuel or not but remembered from somewhere that doing normal things like fuelling could help with shock. Getting hauled out of a movie you’d been trapped in would cause that, no question.

“Th-thank you,” the mini-cassette said shakily and took a deep drink. “What happened? Where was I?”

“You were magically contained as part of a movie and stored on a data slug for perhaps eighteen thousand meta-cycles,” Prowl explained, as if things like that were an everyday occurrence for the wizard. For all Jazz knew, maybe they had been, once.

“What’s your name?” Jazz asked, seeing a wide-opticked ‘what the frag?’ look creeping over the little mech’s face.

“Oh, I-I’m Rewind.” Rewind pinged them an RFID: Rewind of Kalis, archivist, he/him pronouns. Jazz returned the ping with his own RFID and hoped Prowl remembered to do the same. “Where am I?”

“Crossfade School of Performing Arts at Altihex University,” Jazz told him. “Sound familiar?”

“Not – really? The Altihex University part does but not the rest. I was – I was in Altihex, but – “ Rewind shook his head and stared into his energon.

“Do you remember anything of what happened to you?” Prowl asked.

‘Crouch down or something,’ Jazz messaged him. ‘He’s tiny. You’re looming.’ Prowl sent him an acknowledgement glyph with a gratitude marker and sat down cross-legged on the stage.

Oblivious to the private comm, Rewind shook his head again. “Not really? I remember…running but not why. I remember being chased but not by whom. I – it’s all in my databanks somewhere, but I’m having trouble accessing it.”

“Do you require a medic?” Prowl inquired.

“No, not a medic. I need to – to find Blaster,” Rewind said, voice steadier now, lowering the drained cube. “My host. He’ll have the others,” other mini-cassettes, Jazz guessed, “with him, I hope.”

“There’s a Blaster that teaches Advanced Mutli-Dimensional Music Theory,” Jazz suggested. “Sound system alt, some symbionts.” Jazz downloaded Blaster’s public ID from the campus DataNet and transmitted it to Rewind. “This your mech?”

Rewind’s optics unfocused briefly as he accessed the information, then the mini-cassette brightened with relief. “That’s him. That’s him!” Rewind got up, maybe just a little unsteady from not having been, well, corporeal for the best part of eighteen thousand meta-cycles. Jazz helped him down off the stage. “Thank you. Thank you so much. I’m going to try and comm him, I hope he hasn’t changed his frequency.”

“We’ll give you some space.” Jazz assured him and walked to the other side of the auditorium. Prowl rose and followed, pacing along the stage until he reached its end and then jumping down to land lightly beside Jazz.

‘You are a much better judge of reactions than I,’ Prowl said over comms. ‘Do you believe him when he says he cannot access the relevant data?’

Jazz sent the glyph equivalent of a shrug. ‘Yeah? I mean, I don’t know much about being converted to data and back again, but it’d probably scramble you pretty good. Plus, from what we saw, he’s probably pretty traumatized. No surprise it’d do a number on his memory. Why? D’you think he’s hiding something?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do mecha normally have good recall when you pull them out of storage media?’ Jazz made sure to add markers to his glyphs so that Prowl wouldn’t think he was being sarcastic. Although, he wasn’t entirely sure Prowl would notice sarcasm or at least pay it any heed.

‘It is generally better, yes. Though usually they are trapped in books: perhaps it’s simply due to the format.’

‘Or that we’re strangers,’ Jazz suggested. ‘Plus, he didn’t ask how you pulled him free. I’d say wizards aren’t a total surprise to this guy, and he doesn’t know whose side you’re on. Can’t blame him for not spilling right away. Give him your comm, let him spend time with Blaster, get back on his feet, maybe we’ll have better luck.’

Prowl nodded thoughtfully. ‘That is reasonable. Thank you, dearest.’ Out of Rewind’s potential sight, he took Jazz’s hand, giving the fingers a light, affectionate squeeze. ‘As always, I value your insight. Very much.’

Jazz would’ve hugged him except there was still Rewind to deal with. Jazz didn’t think Prowl’d be into PDA in front of strangers, so he sent the glyphs and markers that held the intent instead. Prowl didn’t reply, exactly, but his optics went just a little bit soft in that way that was just for Jazz.

Over on the other side of the auditorium, Rewind slumped noisily back against the front of the stage. He was silent, presumably speaking over comms, and had his hands over his face.

It wasn’t exactly good manners, interrupting someone holding a private conversation, but Jazz went over and touched Rewind on the shoulder to get his attention.

“You alright?” Jazz asked, concerned.

Rewind lowered his hands just a little and nodded, optics shining brightly. “I am. Yes. He’s here. He’s here, and the others are here and – and he’s on his way. I – we can’t thank you enough. If only I could remember what happened and why I – “

Prowl had approached them silently, though Jazz wasn’t startled to find him nearby when he spoke. “It could be useful in determining how the spell that held you was worked. You have my comm frequency now,” he’d have transmitted it while speaking of course, “if you do remember anything, please contact me.”

“I will, yes, of course.” Rewind was practically jittering out of his armour with anticipation. “They’re – the others are almost here, Blaster sent them on ahead. I should go wait for them in the lobby.”

Jazz smiled at him. “Go on, mech.”

Rewind was off like a shot, almost too fast for the automated doors, which closed quickly yet silently behind him. The auditorium’s soundproofing was not quite enough to mute what sounded like at least three small mecha embracing at speed. A klik later there was another, smaller, clang – Blaster joining the reunion, Jazz guessed. He put an arm around Prowl, and the wizard leaned into his side.

“You did good,” Jazz told Prowl. “Not how I pictured our first movie date,” Prowl preferred live entertainment as well, “but I’m starting to get used to that with you.”

“Perhaps we should try again,” Prowl suggested. “In seats further back, with a film that requires less attention?”

Heh. Prowl only looked innocent. Jazz grinned at him. “Suggesting we should go make out at the movies, darling?”

Prowl nodded once in acknowledgement. “It is a time-honoured tradition, I believe?” His hand was warm on Jazz’s back, moving slowly over his armour.

“It sure is,” Jazz agreed, accessing showtimes over the DataNet. A couple of action flicks looked promising.

Prowl’s fingers found the edges of Jazz’s back plating, stroked with just enough pressure to make him shiver. “Then let us, by all means, observe tradition.”

Chapter Text

Praxus, while remaining neutral in the current conflict, still maintained contact and individual agreements with other Cybertronian city-states. One such treaty included a provision allowing Praxian Enforcers to pursue fugitives across borders. Eighteen mega-cycles ago, two Enforcers who were engaged in such a pursuit and heading toward Iacon had been reported missing when they failed their daily check-in. The last report of their location had them in an old industrial area on the Retoris-Iacon border. Search-and-rescue teams had been duly deployed and one of the missing Enforcers, designation Prowl, had been located just inside the Iacon side of the border, locked in an underground acid rain shelter.

Prowl had initially been en route to Doctor Cogwheel University Hospital but had suddenly been upgraded to ‘combative’ and ‘dangerous.’ A secure facility had been requested, and his transport had been rerouted to the Medical Centre of Autobase Iacon.

Now, Enforcer Prowl was crouched in a secure room in Medical in front of Optimus Prime and Ratchet, and it was much more apparent why a civilian hospital wouldn’t have been appropriate. Impossible as it seemed, his symptoms matched a condition that hadn’t been seen in so long it was fading into myth. Somehow, at least one fuel-drinking vampire had survived all this time and had chosen to make Prowl into one of its own kind.

Prowl had seemingly been abandoned by that vampire, left to starve, and had been driven feral as a result. He attacked anyone who might be a source of the processed energon he needed. The Enforcer hissed and growled when anyone got too near and seemed incapable of speech. Their optics burned orange, neither civilian nor warbuild. The most disturbing parts were the unnaturally long, sharp fangs protruding over their lower lip and the curving claws that dug into the floor plating.

“I had thought vampires of this type were all hunted to extinction,” Optimus said, taking a step forward. The vampire’s snarls rose in volume, and he hurled himself against the force field, only to fall back whimpering in pain from the shock.

“Easy,” Optimus murmured, stepping back with one hand held out to placate; the vampire’s optics snapped to his hand then back to his face. He had been doing that, tracking any movement. The rest of the medical staff was too on edge because of that to come down this hallway. “Easy. We mean you no harm.

“Ratchet, can he understand us? Understand anything of what happened and where he is right now?”

“No. He’s getting too much sensory data to sort out and understand anything right now. My remote scan shows all his senses are running on overdrive right now, but I can’t get much more than that. I’d tranquillize him, but,” Ratchet shook his head, “between the low fuel levels and the amount of stress he’s undergoing I can’t predict how he would be affected. It could make him worse. We need a way to calm him down enough to get near him, but right now all I can think of is letting him fall into stasis. Of course, I don’t know what that will do to his systems, either.”

“Hmm.” Prime mulled it over. “Ratchet, do you know of an agent in Spec Ops named Jazz?”

“Yes, of course. The emotivore. He has different needs from Prowl, who’s an enervore, but there may be some similarities.” Ratchet said. “We should call him down here, see if he knows anything. His presence might help calm Prowl down, too. It can’t hurt to try.”

Optimus nodded. “We must find a way to help Prowl, as soon as possible. I’ll inform Blacklight,” the Spec Ops commander, “that Jazz is to be assigned to this project until further notice, superseding all other duties.”

“What will we do with Prowl if we can’t help him?” Ratchet asked.

“I don’t know yet, Ratchet.” Prime sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know.”

***

Jazz whistled in awe, staring down at Prowl. Prowl stared right back, still crouched, but unnaturally still. “Damn, look at those optics. He’s feral, alright.”

“While Ratchet and I realize you’re not the same as Prowl, we appreciate any information or insight you can provide, Jazz,” Optimus said. “Do you have any idea how he could have come to this?”

“Yeah – I mean, yes, Prime.” Jazz gestured toward Prowl. Unlike before, when Prowl had tracked any movement, this time he kept his bright, orange, optics on Jazz’s face. “He’s not just feral, he’s a neophyte – newly turned. Optics’d be a different shade if he’d ever fed on mecha. He been like this all along?”

“Since he was found,” Ratchet confirmed. “He tried to claw out the throat of one of the rescuers and was deemed too dangerous to bring to the Cogwheel. They sedated him for transport and sent him here. It’s the nearest secure medical facility.”

“Okay.” Jazz nodded. “From what my mentor told me, when neophytes like him are turned, the sire – the vamp who turned them – is supposed to let the neophyte feed off them twice. Once after the bite, I guess to make sure whatever makes their kind gets transmitted. The second time is after the reformatting is complete, to make sure the new coding and data took, they know how to feed right, and they have enough fuel to make their first hunt. I’d say Prowl here never got that second feeding.”

“He’s been starving since he went missing,” Ratchet stated.

“Yeah.” Jazz’s visor dimmed sadly. “Yeah, I’d say so. Poor fragger. Gonna say he didn’t agree to this, either. Don’t suppose they found the sire?”

“No,” Optimus said. “There was a corpse found nearby, in a tunnel connecting underground shelters, but it was that of his partner, Long Range. He appears to have been drained, but no attempt was made to turn him.”

“Sounds like the sire fed and ran.” Jazz shrugged but looked away, clearly angry at the thought. “He might’ve changed his mind about creating a neophyte and left Prowl on his own. Or, and this doesn’t happen often, but it can, the bite was enough to trigger the change, and this was an accident.”

“Hell of an accident,” Ratchet muttered angrily.

“Yeah,” Jazz said absently. He was staring back at Prowl. “Has he been staring at you two like this?”

“Not precisely,” Optimus said carefully. “He has been watching but previously his attention locked on whoever was speaking, or any movement.”

“Huh.” Jazz looked back over his shoulder. “Okay if I get close to him?”

“You can try,” Ratchet said drily. “He’s gone for everyone who’s tried to get near him. Getting him in there was a job of work. Even tranquilizing him from a distance doesn’t help. His system burns through sedatives at a rate I’ve never seen before.”

“The force field has successfully restrained him so far,” Optimus added. “I believe it’s safe.”

“Okay. I’ll try getting close. He’s calmer with me here, right? Maybe if I get close, we can bring that up to cooperative.”

Jazz walked slowly over to the force field serving as the fourth wall of the secure room. Prowl’s head lifted to keep track of Jazz’s face as he got closer but otherwise didn’t move. He continued to track Jazz’s face as the Spec Ops mech knelt in front of him.

“Hey there, Prowl,” Jazz said softly. “That’s your name: Prowl. D’you remember that?” Prowl did not respond, but his claws skittered against the floor. “Guess not. I’m Jazz. I’d send you my info, but, I don’t think you’re in any condition to get it.”

Prowl cocked his head to one side, slightly, a slight frown joining the stare. His claws tapped against the floor, paused, tapped, paused, tapped. Paused.

“Well, that’s – unexpected.” Jazz twisted at the waist to address the mecha behind him. Prowl made a disapproving growl. “It’s a variant on optical code, using sound instead of light or symbols.”

“Do you understand it?” Optimus asked.

“Yeah. Lemme see if I can get him to do it again, now that I know what to listen for, just to be sure.” Jazz leaned forward and laid a hand flat on the floor, then tapped out a rhythm with his fingertips.

Prowl stared at him for a klik more before the claws tapped again in the same pattern: Jazz translated. “’Like. Not like. Like. Not like.” Those burning optics stared up at Jazz, locked on his. “He means ‘similar,’ I think. Not sure if he understood what I wanted or just tried again anyway though.”

“He recognizes you as an emotivore,” Optimus observed.

“Y’can say ‘vampire,’” Jazz told him, not looking away from the ex-Enforcer in the secure room. “Ain’t offended by it. And yeah, he does.”

“Is there any chance he could take regular energon the way you do?” Optimus asked. “As a supplement?”

Jazz shook his head. “Nah. Not his kinda vamp, and definitely not this far gone. In fact, I’m surprised he managed to tap a message out. Must’ve taken a lot of effort. Ferals are usually too far gone for language of any kind.” He glanced over at Ratchet; Prowl snarled unhappily at this loss of Jazz’s attention. “Doc, d’you think you could get a couple energon donors lined up? He doesn’t need to bite someone, as long as it’s living energon. He can drink it from a cube like anyone else.”

“I’ll check.” Ratchet looked between Jazz and Optimus. “I suppose the two of you are my first volunteers?”

“’Course,” Jazz answered readily.

“Gladly, old friend,” Optimus confirmed.

“Ah, Prime?” Jazz said, twisting around to look at his commander. “Maybe not you. See, there’s a couple different types of energon-drinkers. One of ‘em thinks they’re damned and’ll react like they’re poisoned if they touch anything holy. My creator said they’d seen one die of it once. It’s a matter of belief, mostly.”

“I see,” Optimus said gravely. “You fear the Matrix may affect my energon, making me unsuitable as a donor?”

“Maybe. He’s not too far gone for words, might not be too gone to recognize you as Prime.” Jazz shrugged. “Can’t exactly ask him if he believes or not.”

“If he were not aware the energon was mine?” Optimus asked curiously.

“Maybe okay? Maybe not.” Jazz said uncertainly. He shrugged again, just one shoulder this time. “Never was too good with the myst - holy side of things.”

“Mysticism or no mysticism, we do know that the Matrix affects your systems, Optimus,” Ratchet pointed out, less worried than Jazz about offending believers. “I’d rather not risk poisoning my patient. You’re off the donor list until we find out if Prowl’s a believer or an atheist or what.” Ratchet’s optics went unfocused as he accessed internal comms seeking donors. “Jazz, go find First Aid. He’ll get you started. Do not come back here till you’re adequately refuelled yourself.”

“Can do, Ratchet.” Jazz turned back to Prowl, who was pressed as close to the forcefield as a mech could get without getting shocked. “I know you can’t understand, but I’m gonna come back. Okay?” Prowl was again sitting stock still and staring at Jazz and did not respond. Jazz tapped out a message in code, intended to reassure, and got no reply. “Right, well. Hope you understood that. We’ll get you out of this, don’t worry, mech.”

Prowl still didn’t respond. Jazz could only hope he understood enough to know when they were trying to help him.

***

Ratchet managed to pull together sufficient donors to fill two cubes for Prowl. There was some debate over how to get the energon to Prowl and keep the mech handing it over safe. Finally, it was agreed to open a section of the forcefield and let Jazz, who Prowl seemed least likely to hurt, hand it through.

For the first time, as Jazz settled down on the floor in preparation for the force field opening, Prowl’s optics fixed on an object instead of a mech or a motion.

“Hope you remember how to drink from these,” Jazz murmured as he slid a cube through the nano-klik the field opened. Prowl snatched the cube up greedily, fangs puncturing the seal, and he sucked in as much energon as he could as fast as he could. The level visibly dropped over mere nano-kliks. “Hey, now, easy,” Jazz crooned. “Go slow. Don’t make yourself sick. Easy, easy.”

Prowl, who was too far gone to understand, hunched over his cube, drinking his energon like the starving mech he was. Jazz pushed through the second cube before the first was finished and that one was snatched up and consumed just as fast as the first. Almost as soon as he was finished, the second empty cube fell from Prowl’s hand, and he began, suddenly, to shiver: strut-deep, frame-wracking shudders.

“It’s okay,” Ratchet said, suddenly kneeling next to Jazz. “That’s a good sign, means his frame is trying to warm him up. I can scan him a bit better already: self-repair systems are coming fully online. He must’ve been in top shape before this happened to him.”

“He’ll need more fuel then, won’t he?” Jazz asked.

Ratchet nodded. “Yes, but we might be able to artificially process regular energon into a form he can use, without donors. I’ve got some ideas.”

Prowl was looking back and forth between them now in something approaching comprehension. His optics were dimming, both fading back to blue from blazing orange and powering down. His self-repair systems were pushing him into recharge so they could work.

“It’s okay, Prowl,” Jazz said, soothingly, “it’s safe. You can go ahead and sleep. Ratchet here’s a medic, you can trust him. Can you find the bed behind you? Better place to ‘charge than the floor, yeah?”

“I’m not sure he can make it,” Ratchet murmured. “Don’t worry. If he keels over, I’ll just go in and move him once he’s good and out.”

Prowl tipped over till he lay on his side, pillowing his head on one arm, optics flickering and fading and finally shutting off.

“There you go,” Jazz praised. “Get some rest. It’ll be better once you’re awake.” Prowl made no indication he heard or understood.

“He is out,” Ratchet announced and stood. Jazz followed suit. “Jazz, I want you to stay with him.” Ratchet took the force field down, bent, and easily scooped up the ‘charging vampire, taking them over to the hospital bed and making sure they were positioned comfortably.

“Blacklight cleared me from everything else,” Jazz assured him. “It’s no problem. Anything you need me to do?”

“Just be here, for now. Is there anything you want – tablet, energon – while you wait for him to wake up?”

“Tablet with access to long-range comms,” Jazz answered, watching Ratchet check on Prowl’s vitals. “I wanna call my enclave, see if they have any advice for me.” Prowl’s fangs and claws slowly transformed back into normal teeth and fingers. He was definitely recovering now. “Prowl’s gonna need all the support we can give him.”

***

Prowl onlined to bright light, not the complete darkness he last remembered. His head hurt, and his body ached. He was hungry, but it wasn’t the terrible, consuming hunger he’d had before when he woke in the shelter. This was normal hunger, like he’d come off a long patrol and had to refuel, not starvation.

He distinctly remembered an attack, his partner yelling. Then, distantly, being pushed down, held down by another, an unfamiliar frame bent over him, pain in his throat and a growing sensation of weakness. After that he remembered only darkness and overwhelming hunger, his memory files too damaged past that point to tell him anything else. His chronometer had stopped working, and with no sunlight, he’d had no way to track time.

His chronometer was back online now, and it told him eighteen mega-cycles had passed since the assault. His access to the DataNet was back as well, and he pinged it for a location.

How had he gotten to Iacon? Let alone the Medical Centre of an Autobase? Prowl’s last memory had him on – technically under – the border of Iacon.

Lying here would not get him answers. Prowl brought his optics to full power and looked around. There was an energon drip in his arm, but the fuel seemed strange. He had been without fuel for an extended period of time, perhaps it contained medication or additives that changed its appearance.

“Hey there,” a warm, slightly raspy, voice said from his left-hand side.

Prowl found the controls for the bed – hospital equipment being fairly standardized – and tilted himself into a sitting position. He took stock of the mech next to him: black-and-white, blue visor, something…something familiar but not about him. He wore a friendly smile and leaned forward in his chair, making himself smaller, unthreatening. Thanks to recent occurrences and his current situation Prowl was on alert, and it wasn’t entirely working, but he appreciated the attempt.

“How’re you feeling?” the mech continued.

“Hungry,” Prowl answered. “Confused. You are not medical personnel.” They weren’t marked as such, but it was possible they were new and hadn’t gotten their medic sigils yet. Even so, they should have still been broadcasting basic identity information.

“Nope. You don’t remember me at all?”

“No.” Apart from that strange familiarity. “Should I?”

“Wouldn’t expect you to. You were pretty out of it first time we met. I’m Jazz.” ID ping: origin, rank, and pronouns. “Ratchet’s the doc. He’s on the way.” Jazz looked Prowl over with concern. “You’ve been fueled, but you’re still not up to standard. Don’t be too shocked by your readings or how you look.”

“Why was I brought to the Medical Centre of an Autobase instead of a civilian hospital?” Prowl wanted to know.

“Yeah, they told me not to tell you about that till Ratchet gets here,” Jazz said apologetically. “Or about what happened to you till Ratchet and, um, some shrink gets here. Sorry, can’t remember the guy’s name. ‘S weird, I’m usually pretty good with them.”

A standard debriefing after a traumatic event, then. There would be no point in pushing for answers.

“I understand,” Prowl said. “So, Jazz. What can you tell me?”

Jazz sat back, lounging a little. “Not much you don’t already know, I’m guessing. Sports’ve died off since the war, so those’re out. Same thing with movies, ‘less you wanna talk about the classics.”

“I’ve never had time for sports or movies,” Prowl said honestly. “I generally play real-time tactical simulations in my off time.”

“Yeah?” Jazz ‘spaced a tablet and opened up a menu. “There’s a couple strategy-based games on here that can be set for two players. Care to give one a try?”

The mecha that could hold Prowl’s interest as his opposition, let alone present him with a challenge, were few and far between. However, he recognized Jazz’s offer as meant to create and develop social bonds between individuals and knew that whatever Jazz’s function was, being cooperative in a medical setting meant he would be discharged that must faster.

“Certainly,” Prowl agreed.

Playing against Jazz was…interesting. The other mech did not stay to the same linear, statistics-based method of play that Prowl did. Prowl could see the underpinnings of Jazz’s tactical plans, but the other mech innovated in ways Prowl found extremely difficult to predict. Jazz relied on lateral thinking in a way Prowl did not. Could not. Intuition. Prowl was not wholly incapable of it, but he used it far more rarely than he did statistical predictions and logical progressions. Jazz seemed to be a master of it. Prowl knew Jazz’s rank – Captain – thanks to Jazz’s ID ping, but not what division he belonged to or what his role was. Prowl was not naturally good at social interaction and had had to learn to read individual cues very well to accurately gauge his actions and responses. Jazz’s signals gave Prowl an eighty-nine percent probability that he was not part of Medical and was here for some other reason.

“May I ask questions about you, Jazz?” Prowl inquired, casually and ruthlessly obliterating an entire division of Jazz’s aerial units.

Jazz grinned at Prowl’s changed arrangement of troops and brought his Wreckers, a squadron that could be kept hidden from the opposite player, out to take out Prowl’s central command. “You can ask, yeah.”

But not necessarily receive an answer, Prowl surmised. Most people did not mean that exactly literally – they would say it and then feel obligated to provide the information. But Prowl had played Jazz through two games now, analyzing his methods, and was beginning to learn how he thought.

Prowl initiated the command post’s self-destruct. The personnel would retreat or be killed, and it was worth the loss of materiel to prevent it falling into the enemy’s hands and perhaps kill a Wrecker or two.

“But you may not answer,” Prowl concluded aloud.

“May not,” Jazz said cheerfully. “Nope.”

“What is your function here?”

“Right here right now?” Jazz successfully convinced several of Prowl’s top officers to defect, and Prowl could not see how. “Keeping you company.”

“Are you an interrogator?” Prowl had been considering this possibility, in a separate processing thread, for nearly a klik now.

“Sometimes. Not now.” Jazz spread his hands. “Really am just here to keep you company.”

“But you cannot tell me why?”

“No. Don’t worry, the plan ain’t to keep you in the dark forever.” Jazz looked over toward the door that Prowl suspected was a hologram set in a force-field to make the room appear normal. “Ratchet’s on his way. Sounds like Rung with him.”

So Jazz had advanced sensors as well. Prowl filed that information away for future use. He also noted that Jazz saved the game rather than exiting, indicating a wish to continue later. Prowl found the idea of doing so appealing.

Two new mecha entered the room: a red-and-white medic with a white chevron and a smaller orange mech with glasses. Their FFIDs were broadcasting identities freely. The doctor was Ratchet, Chief Medical Officer and the orange mech was Rung, Psy-Ops Specialist. Prowl thought he could pick up a faint scent of fuel freshly spilled from a mech’s lines and wondered if they had just come from a procedure of some kind. He also felt a fresh pang of hunger and wondered when he could fill his tanks directly instead of having energon dripped directly into his lines.

“Hello, Prowl. I’m Ratchet.” Prowl had never quite gotten the social convention of giving someone your name when they’d already received your ID ping but nonetheless did not question it. Ratchet continued, “I’ll be your attending physician while you’re under care here. How are you feeling?”

“Awake,” Prowl said. “Aware. My memories of the time that passed between the assault on my person and onlining here are largely fragmented. I have a helmache and assorted aches throughout my frame but am not experiencing any sharp pains.”

“Aren’t you thorough,” Ratchet commented, taking readings from the sensors embedded in Prowl’s bed. “Not your first time in a hospital, I take it?” He plowed on without waiting for Prowl to answer. “Anything else?”

“I am hungry,” Prowl admitted. “But not unusually so considering I am not yet fully fuelled. I do not recall but I conclude I must have lost a great deal of energon because I was extremely hungry prior to my rescue. However, I do not recall receiving a wound sufficient to cause such loss nor do I log such a wound having been repaired.”

“Yes, about that,” Ratchet said slowly. He looked between Rung and Jazz for no reason Prowl could discern and sighed. “Prowl, what do you remember about the mech that attacked you? Anything unusual?”

“I recall very little of the attack,” Prowl said, “but am currently attempting to recover the fragmented memory files. My partner, Long Range, was attacked in the shelter along with myself. Is he here?”

“No. I’m sorry,” Ratchet said, and Prowl believed it to be more than rote condolences. “Your partner is deceased. We think the same person who attacked you killed him.”

Prowl was silent, absorbing this information. He and Long Range had been newly assigned to each other, professional partners and nothing more, but even so. “I see. He mentioned once that he was quite close to his mentor. Have they been notified?”

“She has, yes.” Ratchet paused, giving Prowl a moment of space. Prowl didn’t need it but understood the reason behind it. “Were the two of you close?”

“No. We were only recently partnered. Still, we worked well together.” Prowl folded his hands in his lap and looked down at them. “I regret his loss.”

“I’m afraid we won’t be able to release you in time for the memorial tomorrow,” Rung said apologetically. “But I can arrange for you to attend remotely if you would like.”

“I would,” Prowl said. “Thank you. What of the person who attacked us? Have they been located?”

“No,” Ratchet told him. “Not yet.”

“We have agents looking for him,” Jazz added. “Not just Autobots, either. Don’t want what happened to you and Long Range to happen to anyone else if we can help it.”

That sounded like more than a simple assault had occurred. Prowl frowned. “What did happen?” He looked at Ratchet. “Jazz informed me explanations would have to wait until you and – “ Shockingly, his memory faltered, and he looked over at the orange mech.

“Rung,” the mech supplied, in a tone that suggested he had to remind people fairly often what his name was.

“Yes, thank you.” Prowl looked back at Ratchet. “As you are both here now, may I have the briefing on my injuries?”

“The injuries themselves were fairly minor,” Ratchet said slowly. “The primary issues were major fuel loss and some form of infectious agent.”

Without understanding why, Prowl raised a hand to his throat and touched the patch there, too new for his self-repair systems to have begun incorporating.

“How long will it take you to clear the infection?” Prowl wanted to know. His personal security systems did not register any form of virus, but perhaps it was something an individual’s antivirals were not potent enough to read. Still, he would have expected an alert of some kind if a medical antiviral program had been grafted into his systems.

He should not have set inquiries into his condition aside after he woke, regardless of what Jazz had said. He should have been analyzing this all along. But, he didn’t feel any different. He felt…normal.

Ratchet looked uneasy. Jazz looked regretful. Ring’s glasses made him unreadable.

“Is it permanent, then,” Prowl asked, “or terminal?”

“It’s not terminal,” Ratchet said quickly. “It is permanent, but it isn’t anything that can’t be managed. You’ll still have a relatively normal life. It’s – it’s not exactly a disease, but…”

“What – “ Prowl started.

“You’re a vampire,” Jazz said bluntly at the same time. “Mech who attacked you drained you of fuel, and you turned.”

Prowl stared at him. Jazz gave absolutely no indication he was joking.

“And so am I,” Jazz continued. “I feed differently from you, but that’s why they had me in here. Having another vampire nearby seemed to keep you calm.”

“Very subtle, Jazz, thank you” Ratchet muttered, rubbing his forehead with his fingers. He sighed. “I would have broken it to you more gently, Prowl, but in short, yes. You have been turned into a vampire, and I’m very, very sorry.”

“I.” Static hissed in Prowl’s vocalizer. This was illogical. It was irrational. It went against everything Prowl understood to be true. “What. Vampires – vampires are – “

“Take it easy,” Rang said calmly but with a hint of command in his voice. “Prowl. Cycle your cooling systems.” Prowl obeyed. “And again. Good. Just keep doing that.”

“Prowl,” Ratchet said, “I want you to run a diagnostic. Look for anything that’s been added or altered, specifically in your fuelling and transformation routines.”

Dazed, Prowl focussed on Ratchet’s command, needing the sense of order and control a task would give him. His fuel requirements were changed, and he did not understand the new ones. That was not surprising: he had never needed to know more than his basic requirements, so he could ensure they were being met and remained unchanged. His transformation routines initially looked unchanged, but as he dove deeper, past the major and minor routines, into the routines that allowed for micro-transformations, he found them. Micro-transformations controlled such things as moving armour aside for medical procedures, raising or lowering a visor, or extending a tool from a fingertip.

Prowl had never had micro-transformation routines for claws. He’d never had them for his teeth. Seeing that these micro-transformations were connected to a minor routine, Prowl rose up a level through his own code seeking that minor routine. It seemed that that routine was interdependent on part of the new fuelling requirements, but Prowl couldn’t understand how. If his fuel levels dropped below a certain level, the transformations for claws and teeth would engage along with an initiative to locate a source of fuel and consume it. The lower his fuel levels got, the more processing power the initiative required, until all higher functions were forced offline and all that was left was a body hunting for food.

Cold dread seized Prowl at the thought of his higher functions – his mind, everything that made him him – being driven offline for any reason. Of there being nothing left of Prowl active while this – this invasion took control.

Prowl was aware that someone was calling his designation, but it sounded as if they were very far away. He was aware of the conflict between his processor and his battle computer and, for the sake of clearing the conflict and coming back online in a state capable of responding correctly to this, allowed the conflict to overwhelm him.

***

A full cycle had passed by the time Prowl managed to online again after his crash.

“There you go, easy now,” Ratchet was saying as Prowl booted back up. “How do you feel? Dizzy? Are your recent memories fragmented?”

“I’m fine, now,” Prowl assured him. “I was upgraded with an experimental tactical computer seventeen vorn ago. Data conflicts, emotional stress, injury can all cause kernel panic resulting in my neural net crashing. My short-term memory is modified to prevent the cache from clearing in the event of an unexpected shutdown, allowing me to access my memories and determine what caused the crash.”

“Yeah, this’d set that off if anything would. It’s a lot to take in,” Jazz said quietly, still watching from his spot next to Prowl. “There’s a lot we’ve gotta talk about.”

“You may take the time you need,” Rung added, “but it would be beneficial for you to talk about what happened as soon as possible.”

Prowl was more than aware of the benefits to a trauma survivor of a prompt debrief. He had been through similar sessions several times before and had dutifully attended the requisite therapy sessions, both individual and group.

But those had been different. Those had occurred after the loss of fellow Enforcers, the times he had been forced to shoot or witnessed another officer shoot a suspect, and occasions where he had been injured in the line of duty. Those incidents were not desired by any means, but they were an expected part of his function. This…this was not. Undergoing debrief and therapy was normal, part of a conventional structure. It would be beneficial to engage in it as soon as possible. Prowl chose to fall back on structure and routine to help himself stabilize.

“I understand,” Prowl said, dividing his attention between conversation and the processing thread that was analyzing his memory log. “I would like to begin therapy as soon as possible.”

“Of course,” Rung said with a professional smile. “Once Ratchet has cleared you I’ll set up an appointment.”

Prowl inclined his head in thanks. “That is appreciated. One request, however: I would like Jazz to be present.”

“No problem,” Jazz said cheerfully. “Been assigned to you for the duration. Can ask me anything you want, too. Any particular reason you want me there, though?”

“You are familiar with my current…condition. You have understanding and information that may be useful in determining what happened and in advising me how to cope,” Prowl informed him. “Although, I am curious to know what ‘I feed differently from you’ means. Will that affect your ability to contribute?”

“There are a couple different kinds of vamps,” Jazz began. “My kind, we don’t have the teeth or the fangs. Don’t need them. We feed on emotions. The kind of vamp that bit you is what most people think of when they think ‘vampire.’”

Jazz hadn’t even finished by the time the realization crashed down on Prowl. The IV.

He jerked his arm in reflexive horror. “I – that is – this is – I have…”

“Hey!” Jazz dove forward and got into Prowl’s field of vision, holding his gaze. “Hey, Prowl, listen. Cycle your cooling system like Rung there told you, okay? Okay, yeah, that energon is what you think it is but – listen to this, this is important, right? – but it came from volunteers. Informed volunteers who consented. You were starving and feral when you came in. You haven’t fed on anyone. Haven’t bitten anyone, haven’t killed anyone. You follow?”

Prowl let his cooling system cycle a few more times before he answered. “I understand.” Another cycle. “Thank you, Jazz.”

“No problem, mech.”

“Ratchet,” Prowl said, turning his attention on his doctor. “What can you tell me of my condition?” It was easier to think of it as a condition than an invasion, which was what it truly felt like.

“Not much, I’m afraid. Jazz will probably be of more help. What I can tell you,” Ratchet continued, “is that your self-repair systems are still active and will be for the next few mega-cycles as they make repairs and integrate the changes to your systems. Apart from that and some effects from fuel deprivation, you’re in good shape.

“Regarding your fuel,” Ratchet’s brief hesitation told Prowl the medic understood Prowl was uncomfortable, “we have enough donors – informed, consenting volunteers as Jazz said – to provide fuel for you. I’m also working on a way to process regular energon into something you can use.”

“Thank you, Ratchet,” Prowl said, meaning it. “An artificial source would be preferable.”

It was not entirely true. Not having been forced to require living energon as his sole fuel source would be the most preferable but Prowl’s reliance on order and logic made him a realist. Unless a way was found to reverse his – he forced himself to think the word – vampirism there was no other option.

***

Jazz stayed with him well after the doctors had left. Prowl was oddly relieved not to be left with his own thoughts and played through a few more games with Jazz until Prowl became comfortable enough to ask questions.

“Is your offer to ask you anything still valid?” Prowl asked at the end of their third game.

“’Course. Fire away.”

“How do you feed?” Prowl was reluctant to ask but more than that he wanted information. He coped with things by understanding them.

“Physical contact is best,” Jazz answered. “But I can pick up what I need just by walking through a crowd if emotions are running high enough.” He smiled. “Concerts are fantastic for that. Lotta concerts back home in the enclave. Oh,” Jazz added, “and I don’t feed on anyone who doesn’t know what I do and hasn’t agreed to let me do it.”

Prowl raised a hand to his throat, dropped it. “Are there enclaves for the other kind? Could you locate my assailant that way?”

Jazz shook his head. “Don’t know. They’re really rare, supposed to be extinct.”

“Do you believe they will return for me?”

Jazz hesitated. “Maybe we should wait for the shrink for this.”

“Please,” Prowl said quietly, “tell me.”

Jazz sighed. “Prowl, I don’t think they will. Don’t think they meant to turn you, or they'd have come back to feed you from their own lines. That’s usually necessary to transmit whatever it is causes the change.” He looked apologetic. “Sorry if that’s blunt, but you seem like a ‘rip-the-field-dressing-off’ kinda mech.”

“I am, yes. I appreciate your honesty.” He really did. Prowl did not believe in cushioning bad news. He believed in facing things, even if it sometimes took effort to do so. “Then, unless they were prevented from returning, they meant to kill me as they did Long Range.”

“I’d say so. Normally it’s feeding from the sire’s lines that completes the change, but you ain’t the first this has happened to.” Something dark flickered across Jazz’s optic band. “We’re gonna try and make you the last, though. I know that doesn’t help.”

“No.” For the first time, Prowl felt a flicker of anger, small and deep but strong. “If a way exists for me to assist you in that, however, that would help me greatly.”

Jazz smiled. It wasn’t a cheerful smile. Prowl approved of it. “Prowl, you’re a mech after my own spark.”

***

Prowl’s first appointment with Rung took place one mega-cycle later and mercifully took place outside of Prowl’s hospital room. Prowl had been moved to a regular room once it became clear he was stable and in no danger of becoming feral again, but truthfully there was not much visual difference. Rung’s office was relatively sparse and decorated in neutral colours, but it was designed for comfort and not efficiency and was a welcome change for that alone. Prowl had chosen a comfortable chair facing the psychiatrist. Jazz had dragged Rung’s desk chair over, turned it around, and straddled it, leaning forward against the chair’s back. He looked relaxed and comfortable, far more so than Prowl suspected to be the case. They had spent much of the time since Prowl had onlined after coming out of his feral state together and Prowl had already determined that Jazz was quite protective of people he liked.

It was more pleasing than Prowl would have expected to fall into that category.

“How are you feeling today, Prowl?” Rung asked kindly.

“Still unsettled,” Prowl admitted. Ratchet had put him on a strict refuelling schedule until his self-repair completed and the repairs settled, and he had a cube in his hands now. It helped steady him, so long as he didn’t think about where it came from.

Volunteers, he thought, remember it is from informed, consenting volunteers. Including Jazz, the most informed of all. You have not harmed. You have not killed.

“But speaking with Ratchet and Jazz has helped,” Prowl continued. “The information from Jazz’s enclave has been quite useful as well. I would like to relate to you what happened immediately before, during, and after the assault on my person, if you are ready?”

“You’ve done this before,” Rung noted. It was not a question, so Prowl did not reply. “Very well. Please begin.”

Prowl did so.

“My partner, Long Range, and I were tracking a suspect in an old industrial area. A rainstorm came up, and we retreated to one of the underground acid rain shelters in the area. The lights in the shelter didn’t work, but it was otherwise adequate. We thought we were alone, but someone attacked us.” Prowl touched his throat, flinching when he encountered the patch over the bites there, a reaction that was getting worse instead of better. “I remember they were very fast. They struck us nearly simultaneously, at great speed. I recall the attack, my partner shouting, and being knocked down by the assailant.”

Knocked down and held there, by someone far stronger than he was, far stronger than they should have been from the shape and size of their frame. Prowl paused to collect himself.

“It’s alright if you can’t tell us now,” Rung soothed. “Take your time.”

“No,” Prowl shook his head. “It’s necessary. I was,” he cycled air through his cooling system, “held down and bitten. I remember the pain in my throat, growing weaker, and – my memory files are too fragmented to access after that. Thus far, I have been unable to recover them.”

“You probably won’t,” Jazz told him. “There’s a lot of trauma comes with being turned, tends to wreck memories pretty bad.”

“Indeed.” Prowl drank some more energon before continuing, to give himself space where no one would question his ability to continue. “My complete memories begin again when I onlined after the attack. My partner was missing; I presumed he was deceased, as turned out to be the case. My systems indicated minor damage and low fuel levels, and I was,” he glanced down at his energon, which had a different shine to it than the regular stuff that came from a dispenser, “terribly hungry,” he finished quietly. “Desperately so. I tried my emergency rations but was not able to keep the energon in-system. I did not have sufficient power to get out of the shelter and was forced to remain where I was. My power was too low to send a distress signal using my onboard comm suite, so I sent a distress signal using an external transmitter with a separate power source. Was that how I was found?”

“It was, yes,” Rung answered. “Do you know how long you were trapped in the shelter?”

“Fifteen mega-cycles,” Prowl replied. “I was largely in power-down mode, but my chronometer continued to function. Once I knew how long it had been between the time I was found and the time I – came back to myself I was able to determine how long I was trapped.”

“Did you have any source of fuel during that time?” Rung asked.

“I think I may have fed from turbo-rats once or twice,” Prowl admitted reluctantly, mouth twisting in distaste. “Apart from that, if I did, none I could keep down or successfully process.”

“How do you feel about your new fuel requirements?” Rung probed.

“Distressed,” Prowl admitted. “Even knowing it comes from volunteers who provided informed consent, the source of it is still disturbing. I refuel on the schedule Ratchet prescribed and have no intention of denying myself fuel, but I would prefer Ratchet find a way to synthesize a fuel I can use sooner rather than later.”

“You won’t starve yourself,” Jazz said, watching Prowl with relief. “You’re scared you’ll go feral. Like you were when you were brought in.”

Feral. All higher functions shut down while the shell of Prowl hunted. Prowl refused to let himself think about that.

“Consuming donated fuel is preferable to entering the feral state. Knowing there was an extended period that I cannot remember where I was neither in control nor aware is deeply disturbing to me,” Prowl said quietly.

“If it helps, not sure you were entirely unaware,” Jazz put in. “You fixed on me pretty good when I came in, and you managed to tap out a message in a sound variant of optical code. Might’ve understood it a bit too. I asked you to repeat it, the same way, and you did.”

Prowl had not known that. “What was the message?”

“’Like. Not like. Like. Not like,’” Jazz relayed. “Staring at me the whole time, too. Pretty sure you recognized me as another vampire.”

“What is the timestamp for this interaction?” Prowl asked. Jazz provided it. “Please, excuse me for a moment while I attempt to review any memory logs that may be available.”

Prowl had not given thought to his time in the feral state previously as he found the idea intensely distressing. Nor would he usually blank out of a conversation, even for a few nano-kliks, to analyze data. However, this was a therapy session and therefore centred entirely on Prowl, and he was somewhat excused from the rules of normal polite conversation.

Prowl analyzed his memory logs and did not find anything indicating he had attempted to communicate with Jazz, or anyone else. That could not be correct, based on what Jazz had told him. There was one other option for an explanation, and so he accessed the memory logs of his tactical computer. The computer did not have any control over the processing and code for Prowl, but in the event of an extreme emergency, it could access his frame’s motor controls. Sending a message would not be out of the question, but he was unsure why it would have sent that message.

Prowl found what he was looking for deep in the code where his original processor and the tactical computer’s processor interacted. There was a new block of code there, one he recognized as an intrusion, the vampire’s code, interacting with the other two.

“It appears,” he said slowly, coming back up out of it, “that the tactical computer recognized the unfueled, feral state as an emergency, allowing it access to my motor controls. It was not able to override the feral state, but when Jazz was recognized as a vampire, he was viewed as a potential source of assistance. A cure for the feral state, if you will. The interaction between the tactical computer’s emergency response and the vampiric coding permitted the computer to use its access to send a simple message.”

Jazz was nodding slowly. “Makes sense. Don’t know about energon-drinkers but my kind like to live in groups. If I were starving like that and saw another one of my kind, even if they weren’t from my enclave, the first thing I’d do is ask for help.”

Prowl couldn’t help his shiver and didn’t try. “The lack of control on my part that indicates is distressing,” he admitted.

“Being in control is very important to you, then?” Rung asked.

“Very. I have always relied on logic, order, and structure. I understand the need to take time for healing and counselling, but I am looking forward to resuming my role as an Enforcer, if possible.”

Rung nodded. “You fear the loss of the structure you’ve relied on.”

“I was built and sparked to be an Enforcer,” Prowl said. “I enjoy my function and have never wished to do anything else. Without the structure it provides, I am unsure of what I would do.”

“Could do whatever you liked,” Jazz put in. “You’re brilliant, mech.”

Prowl had been called brilliant before, but never in such a matter-of-fact tone. Jazz was not trying to flatter him, there was no unspoken ‘but’ to be followed with a description of his social clumsiness. There was not even admiration. It was simply an observation. Prowl was unsure of how to respond and fell back on a simple ‘thank you.’

Rung gently but firmly guided the conversation back toward Prowl’s feelings on his new circumstances and kept it there for the rest of the cycle. Prowl knew the importance of these sessions and complied readily but was still relieved when the session was ended, and he was able to leave.

“You okay after all of that?” Jazz asked as they walked back to Prowl’s room. Prowl didn’t particularly want to return but had nowhere else to go until Ratchet released him.

“Debriefing and therapy sessions are essential after a traumatic experience,” Prowl said.

“Yeah, but that ain’t what I asked.” Jazz glanced over at him. “You’re either the quiet type that’ll process through all this without a whole lot of outward signs or it’ll all crash down on you at some point. Haven’t figured which one you are yet.”

“The former. This is not my first experience with trauma.”

Jazz made a noncommittal noise and fell silent for a few kliks. Just before they headed down the ramp to the floor holding Prowl’s room, he veered off down a separate hallway.

“This way,” he said. “Gonna show you something.”

“Very well.” Curious, Prowl followed.

‘Something’ turned out to be a small terrace built on top of an odd area where one part of the building did not quite meet an extension. Two small tables with mismatched chairs filled just enough of the space to be awkward. It was not large, it was not beautiful, but it was open to the sky and was not a sterile, white-painted room.

“Thought you might like a change of pace from the standard institution décor,” Jazz said. “Cleared it with Ratchet. Now that you’re fuelled again and everyone’s sure you won’t go feral it’s okay for you to take some time out of your room.”

“And if I do go feral, you’re more than capable of taking me down before I do damage,” Prowl finished. He wasn’t upset. That was a reasonable precaution. He hadn’t quite figured out what Jazz did for the Autobots when he wasn’t assigned to neophyte vampires, but it made sense that part of his role with Prowl was that of a guard. Appointing a guard incapable of neutralizing their potentially dangerous charge if necessary was illogical.

Jazz flashed him a grin. “Sure am.” He ‘spaced the tablet on which they played games, balancing it on a fingertip by the corner and giving it a spin. “So. Game?”

Prowl seated himself at one of the tables. “Please.”

***

 “If you don’t mind my asking,” Prowl enquired the next day, as they played their strategy game on the terrace, “how were you turned?”

“I wasn’t. My kind are sparked, not turned.” Jazz’s forces swept in and overran Prowl’s tertiary airfield. A loss, but not as severe a one as was probably hoped for. “Got creators, sators, the whole bit.”

“So you come from Vector Sigma.” Prowl was strongly agnostic, bordering on atheist, but sparks were real, as was Vector Sigma, and he had sufficient proof to concur that memories could be stored in the Matrix. He was less convinced of the existence of Primus, at least as a god, but he had also believed vampires to be fiction. Now he not only knew of the existence of two kinds of vampires, but he had also been turned into one. “Has there been any reason determined for the existence of vampire sparks?”

“Not that I ever heard.” Jazz’s forces fell back on the northern front, a feint that Prowl recognized and ruthlessly exploited. “Oooh, good one. Didn’t take you for the religious type, no offence.”

“None taken. I am not ‘the religious type,’ but I am attempting to acquire data.”

“D’you think some things can’t be explained by data?”

“No,” Prowl said firmly. “Something that allegedly cannot be explained by data is simply an object or event for which the data has not yet been obtained.” He lifted his energon – Jazz had found an opaque cube somewhere, and that helped – and drank.

“So, Primus…?”

Prowl set his cube down on the table just a touch too forcefully, temper flaring. Most who knew him would have been extremely startled to learn he had one. Those who had seen it in action often wished they had not.

“I will concede the possibility that ‘Primus’ is a sophisticated or even sparked AI that regulates energy production and other aspects of Cybertron’s infrastructure,” Prowl bit out. “But I will not believe in a god who allegedly hears everything and has a connection to each spark and yet let someone be changed by a–a – “ He caught control of himself before he said ‘monster,’ remembering just in time what Jazz was.

“Monster,” Jazz finished for him, calmly. Prowl began to apologize, but Jazz waved it away. “Ain’t offended. I know you meant the mech who changed you and yeah, they were a monster. They murdered Long Range and drained you nearly to death. They weren’t feral like you were when you were brought in. If they had been, you’d’ve both been killed, and Long Range would’ve been left where he fell.”

“Yes,” Prowl agreed, relieved. “I do not think of you as a monster, Jazz, believe me.”

“I know you don’t,” Jazz said. “I know you’re angry with the vamp that bit you, too, and I don’t blame you one bit for that. No one should. You got a right to be angry, Prowl.”

“I am,” Prowl said in a low, angry voice. “I have been assaulted, altered against my will. I can go on, do and be everything I was and did before but what happened cannot be undone. I am…changed. I don’t mean simply the fuel requirements, I - “ It became harder and harder to speak of this the more he did so. It hadn’t even come out in sessions with Rung: Prowl did not want to break down. He did not. But, at the same time he knew, if he did, if it were unavoidable, it was safe to do so with Jazz. “I’ll always know. It becomes harder and harder to stop thinking of it.”

“Hey,” Jazz said firmly. “Prowl. Listen to me.” He leaned across the space and laid a hand on the table for Prowl to take if he needed reassurance, making sure to capture Prowl’s gaze with his own. “Something awful happened to you, yeah, and there is no question it did you harm. But d’you want to let the bastard who did it keep harming you? Or d’you want to move on and use that to tell him to go frag himself sideways? Have you been changed? Okay, yes. But you get to decide how much and what ways. You get me?”

Prowl looked at him for a long klik. He wanted to debate it, protest it, but at the same time, he understood what Jazz was telling him. What Jazz was reminding him of, because Prowl knew these things to be true. He cycled his cooling system as Rung always insisted on, then put his hand on Jazz’s.

“I get you.”

***

Once Prowl’s self-repair had reached ninety percent complete, Ratchet discharged him from the hospital. (Not quite that formally, but Prowl was more amused than confused by the medic’s announcement that “you’re well enough to stop taking up space in my hospital.”) He was required to stay in Iacon for a short time longer but had already begun making plans to return to Praxus. He would undergo another debriefing, with his department’s psychologist, and be on leave for a short period of time, but that was expected. Prowl was looking forward to taking up his routine once again, feeling settled once again.

He increasingly wanted to feel settled. When the lingering effects of fuel deprivation had faded, he had expected to feel more normal, only to discover more changes coming into play. His night vision improved by ten percent. His awareness of other mecha nearby increased, making him very relieved to get out of the cramped private rooms of the hospital. He could smell fuel and even discern whether it was the living energon he could consume or the regular kind. If he focused, he could even hear the susurration of living systems around him. Jazz said that in time he’d be able to tune these out the same way he tuned out the sound of everyday electronics.

Being able to scent energon he could use meant that, after the first few trials when his systems were not yet up to par, he could tell Ratchet if the experimental substitute fuel the medic was developing for him would work or not. Prowl found that vastly, vastly preferable to purging his tanks.  Energon was not meant to be rejected once it was in the body and rarely was unless there was something seriously wrong with it. The most recent batch of artificial living energon was promising, nearly smelling right, but for the moment Prowl was still reliant on fuel supplied by donors.

Prowl had been given the use of officer’s quarters until he was cleared to return home. They had been empty and as such were bare of anything more than basic furniture. Still, they felt more welcoming than the hospital room had.

They also had the benefit of being near Jazz. Prowl was not a mech who made friends often, or easily, and he was surprised at how close he had become with the other mech so quickly. Prowl would regret it when he returned to Praxus and communication with Iacon became more difficult. Still, it would not be impossible, and Jazz had already provided him with an encryption method to use. Both Jazz and Prowl knew better than to include sensitive information of any kind in a personal message, but best to be safe and secure when they could. Perhaps not messaging an Autobot officer at all would be the safest and best choice for a Praxian Enforcer but Prowl – Prowl wanted to maintain his friendship with Jazz.  It wasn’t solely because Jazz was the one to spend the most time with him, helping him during his recovery, either. Prowl had calculated an eighty-six percent probability that they would have engaged with each other in nearly the same way had they met differently.

Jazz had laughed when he’d said that and refused to explain why. Prowl hadn’t felt laughed at but instead felt oddly – he thought the best word might be ‘charmed.’ Yes. Oddly charmed. That was difficult to rationalize to himself. Jazz did not have the type of personality to which Prowl had thought himself attracted, and yet he was clearly reacting with attraction. It was unexpected, and he was not sure if it were something he wanted to deal with right now. Perhaps, though, before he left. He had time enough to consider it.

So, he lived near Jazz and had the opportunity either on his own or with the other mech to explore those sections of Iacon that were still open to civilians. (That was not a term Prowl generally used for himself, but he could see how and why it applied here.) He remembered that Long Range had been devout, something the deceased mech had mentioned sharing with his mentor. Prowl made a brief trip to the large, grandiose, Temple of Primus in the center of the city to light one of the small votive lamps there in his partner’s memory. Prowl did not believe it would make one whit of difference to Long Range, but he knew it would have meaning to Long Range’s mentor. Perhaps it would give some measure of comfort.

During his time in Iacon Prowl had learned a great deal about the need for and nature of comfort. He had been comforted after distressing events before and, at the time, had felt it was more to the benefit of the one attempting to reassure than to himself. Perhaps, at those times, it had been. Maybe he merely noticed the need more in Iacon, separated from familiar surroundings and individuals while he recovered and learned to adapt.

Prowl would have preferred his time in Iacon to have come about differently, and to have happened in peacetime, but it was not unenjoyable. Still, he was only slightly disappointed by the time it came to an end, and he was able to book passage on a transport home to Praxus.

“You feeling good about going home?” Jazz asked him the night before Prowl was to leave. They were in one of the small cafés that remained open near the base. Prowl could not drink regular energon, but he could still eat things that didn’t contain energon, like the silicon wafers drizzled in gallium and topped with lead shavings Jazz had ordered for him. Ratchet theorized that it was because, vampire or not, he still needed metals to maintain his frame. That meant Prowl could continue to take part in social events where consumption was expected and not stand out too much. Prowl, never the most social of people, was surprised at how relieved he was by that. He had never been one to seek out social situations and usually only attended when he was assigned as security, or they were otherwise unavoidable. Exceptions existed, but they were rare.

Prowl considered. He was looking forward to returning to Praxus, very much so. He wanted, craved, the order and routine he had had before. And yet…

“Overall yes,” he answered. “Though I admit that Iacon has its charms as well.”

Prowl was not good at flirting, but he calculated a high probability of that sentence being like something Jazz himself would say. Hopefully, that meant the other mech would find it appealing. Prowl was unsure of what he himself wanted, but he trusted Jazz to take a ‘no’ if this started to go farther than Prowl was comfortable with.

Jazz grinned at him. “Does it, now.” He flipped one of the wafers up into his fingers, made it walk across his knuckles. “What’re you looking for here, Prowler? Little flirtation or something more?” Jazz’s visor shaded just a little bit darker. “Won’t say no if you want something more. Testing yourself, friendly tumble before you head out, or a promise for later. All the options are good.”

“I’m not sure,” Prowl admitted. “I would like…I would like to see where this goes, tonight. I trust you.”

“I’m flattered,” Jazz said quietly, meaning it.  “More than. Alright then, let’s see where it goes.”

***

It went back to Jazz’s place. They had spent hours at the café, which was open ‘round the mega-cycle, interest and flirtation gradually ramping up until Prowl was ready to attempt the next step.

As soon as they were in the Autobot's quarters, Jazz drew Prowl in close, leaning in for a kiss. However, the sound of the door hissing closed made Prowl’s nervousness spike, and he hesitated instead of accepting the kiss.

“Prowl?” Jazz asked, leaning back and looking him in the face. He kept his arms around Prowl, but relaxed now, not pulling away but not expressing desire either. “Talk to me, mech.”

“Only nerves,” Prowl assured him. “You still have my consent. But I am unused to intimate relationships, and I’m concerned about my reactions to interfacing, given the parallels to my assault. I may have to stop and attempt again at a different time.”

Jazz nodded. “Got it. Expected you to say something like that. It’s okay, Prowl. Whatever your call here, I’m good with it.” He smiled. “You’re really worth waiting for, y’know?”

“I – “ Prowl was good with data, logic, structure. Emotions and praise received for being himself, less so.

“We can talk about that later,” Jazz promised, sensing Prowl’s discomfort. “In the meantime, before we get started here, is there anything you don’t want?” He slipped a hand down Prowl’s back but kept away from anything sensitive.

“No restraints, no being held down,” Prowl relayed. Providing structure for an interaction helped to ground him. “No contact with my throat. I may react poorly to having you above me if it happens, but I’m unsure of that.”

“I’ll avoid it unless you ask for it,” Jazz promised. “As for reacting poorly, it’s okay if you do. I get it. You wanna be in charge?” Jazz had said that teasingly to lovers dozens of times before, but this time he was earnest. “Think I’d like that, actually.”

Prowl felt tension he hadn’t realized he was carrying relax. “Yes.”

“Awesome.” Jazz grinned and set his exterior door panel’s sign and signal to ‘do not disturb’ with his special ‘on pain of Jazz’ markers on the glyphs. “Just tell me where you want me then, Prowler.”

“With me,” Prowl answered, sliding his hands down Jazz’s sides. “Just…with me.”

“Gladly, lover.”

***

Twelve cycles later

Prowl stood by the wreck of his transport and, numbly, watched the sullen glow of Praxus burning.

He had been close, so close, to being home. The shockwave had hit them when they were a mere five hics from the border, sending the transport tumbling from the sky. Restraints had snapped in place, held, as the transport full of terrified, screaming mecha tumbled end over end before crashing and sliding along the ground. The safety systems had all engaged as designed and there were fewer casualties than there could have been. Unfortunately, the flight crew had either not been seated or had been in the cockpit when it slammed into the unforgiving ground and were among the casualties. Prowl, seeing that no one else was available or coherent enough to do it, took charge of the survivors, organizing them, instructing others on first aid techniques, determining what supplies they had. There were few weapons available, though much of the security team had survived, and fewer civilians who knew how to use them. Prowl had his service weapon, of course, but ammunition was limited. He did not know if, or when, rescue would be coming and proceeded as if it would not.

Focusing on surviving now kept him from thinking of the immediate past (Praxus, burning, its people, the Crystal Gardens, art, culture, so many people, gone) and the future (attack, defence, the need for shelter, running out of supplies, mecha dying from their injuries). There was only organization and movement toward Nova Cronum, which Prowl calculated as the nearest location to acquire assistance. He could just move his mecha and hope that the Decepticons were not yet hunting beyond Praxus itself for survivors. He still had an external distress beacon, but he didn’t want to use it here in case it was intercepted by the Decepticons. Keeping the civilians alive and functioning was his primary goal.

If he dared to look toward Praxus with enough magnification, he could just make out the shapes of Seekers, silhouetted against the glow of the dying city. They were not safe.

Prowl was so focussed on managing his small group of refugees, on not looking at the melted remnants of his home, that he at first dismissed the encrypted message incoming on his comms. It was only on the third attempt at communication that he recognized, accepted, and decrypted the signal.

‘Prowl! I know you’re not deactivated. Gimme a ping, mech, anything.’

Prowl’s relief was such that his driving speed slowed momentarily. Only momentarily though and it seemed his charges did not notice.

‘Jazz.’ Prowl didn’t even attempt to conceal the markers of relief decorating his glyphs. ‘I’m largely uninjured, nothing requiring immediate medical attention. I have survivors with me, including wounded, en route to Nova Cronum. Are you able to provide assistance?’

‘Yeah, I am. Got your coordinates, sending rescue. You in a place you can stop?’

‘No.’ Prowl sent him their proposed course to Nova Cronum. ‘Have them rendezvous with us along that route. We require immediate transport, medics, and defence.’

‘All on the way, at speed. Can you defend yourselves if necessary till we get there?’

‘For a short time, yes. Speed is requested, however.’ Prowl had to ask. ‘Will you be among the rescue party?’

‘No.’ Markers of regret. ‘I won’t even be able to stay on the line with you much longer. Going out on a mission. Don’t know when I’ll see you again.’

Prowl returned regret of his own. ‘Understood. I hope to see you well when your mission is finished.’

‘Same.’ Friend/close/cared for glyphs with markers indicating Jazz would miss him. Safe travels, Prowl.’

‘Clear roads, Jazz.’

***

The search-and-rescue team arrived within the cycle, their transport coming in at a speed that surely stretched its design specifications. Prowl briefed their commanding officer, then settled himself in the queue for medical attention. He was forced to refuse their offer of energon, but fortunately had two cubes in his subspace, along with the filtering device Ratchet had built for him. Fortunately, he had not seen the point in purchasing luggage or space in the transport’s cargo bay when what little he had could be ‘spaced for free.

Prowl had never been a mech who cared much for possessions, but even to him, two cubes of energon, a service weapon, and a medical device seemed like very little to be left with. Still, many had even less, and his personal losses were nothing compared to the loss of Praxus itself.

The others huddled together, talking, comforting, and mourning. Prowl sat by himself, silent and forgotten, assembling every recollection he had of Praxus in its glory, building a cairn of memories.

When they reached Iacon, where the Praxian survivors were being kept under the protection of the Prime, Prowl was put in charge of his refugees. Only five more joined his group; three of them deactivated within the mega-cycle. Prowl heard rumours of one other survivor, captured and then released by the Decepticons, but did not meet them. They were being kept under even tighter security and Prowl, a civilian now, did not have clearance.

Prowl was strangely relieved and strangely guilty. He didn’t think he could bear the weight of one more person’s tragedy. He felt he should have tried but – he could not. Not yet.

Time passed. Prowl and his refugees were granted temporary stipends each deca-cycle, found places to live, took whatever work they could find, or enlisted with the Autobots. Prowl tried, he very much tried, to become accustomed to life as a civilian. But it lacked the stricture to which he was accustomed and enforcing it on himself wasn’t sufficient to prevent him from feeling adrift.

He woke in the night, seeing Praxus burn. He dreamed of being lost in the Rust Sea with his refugees and having to watch them deactivate. He dreamed he starved, lost in the wilderness, and the vampire took over and turned on them, draining them one by one to feed a hunger that would never be satisfied.

Prowl came to realize he could not live as a civilian. He could not move forward if he were not doing something to prevent another Praxus. He needed order to guide him, and a purpose to fulfill. He had been built to protect, defend, and serve. There was only one place left Prowl could do that.

***

“So, you’re enlisting?” Jazz asked. The saboteur – Prowl finally knew something of what Jazz did for the Autobots – and the former Enforcer sat on the roof of a low building, overlooking the Autobot training grounds. It was a quiet place at night, one Jazz claimed helped him think. Prowl could understand why.

Prowl nodded. “I am, yes. Order and structure have always been important to me and now, to move on, I need them more than ever.”

“I’m behind you,” Jazz clarified quickly. “No question. But I’ll outrank you and regs are regs, and they say either we stop, or this gets serious. Like, some-level-of-spouse serious.”

“I’m not ready for that level of serious. I suppose I’ll simply have to ascend the ranks quickly.”

“Heh.” Jazz smiled and let Prowl lean into him. “If there’s any mech can do it, Prowler, it’s you.”

“Thank you, Jazz.” Prowl took the liberty of taking Jazz’s hand in his, their colours only shades of gray in the low light. “I would have liked to have had more time with you first.”

“’S okay, lover. You gotta do what’s best for you, what’ll settle your mind and spark.” He squeezed Prowl’s hand. “Want you to be happy, or at least content as possible.”

“Thank you,” Prowl repeated. He smiled. “Though I must point out, I’ve not enlisted yet, and regulations do not yet apply.” Prowl pressed a small kiss to Jazz’s shoulder. “While we can, will you spend the night with me? Will you feed from me?”

“Primus, yes!”

***

Several meta-cycles later

To: @Jazz.Protihex|Colonel.AutobaseIacon

From: @Prowl.Praxus|Captain.AutobaseExuriumThrone

Subject: Condolences

Colonel Jazz, I recently learned of the death of General Blacklight of Polyhex and wanted to express my condolences. I know you worked closely together for a long time.

I am sorry for your loss. If I could be there to support, you I would.

Prowl

Prowl of Praxus, Captain, Autobase Exurium Throne

To: @Prowl.Praxus|Captain.AutobaseExuriumThrone

From: @Jazz.Protihex|Brigadier-General.AutobaseIacon

Subject: Re: Condolences

Appreciate it, Prowl. Losing Blacklight was fragging rough. Thought he’d make it through if anyone would. Looks like Spec Ops is mine now. Hope I can live up to Blacklight’s expectations.

I follow your career, you know. Keep kicking arse, you’ll get here.

Jazz

Jazz of Protihex, Brigadier-General, Autobase Iacon

To: @Jazz.Protihex|Brigadier-General.AutobaseIacon

From: @Prowl.Praxus|Captain.AutobaseExuriumThrone

Subject: Re: Re: Condolences

You’re an exceptional officer. You will exceed Blacklight’s expectations.

Congratulations on your well-deserved promotion.

I will undertake to follow your advice.

Prowl

Prowl of Praxus, Captain, Autobase Exurium Throne

***

Several hundred vorn later

“You got up through the ranks faster than I expected,” Jazz said to Prowl as the last of the attendees at the promotion ceremony filed out. Not a lot of time for partying at this stage of a war. “Can’t have been easy.”

“I had an excellent reason to put in the effort,” Prowl replied, stalking purposefully toward Jazz from the front of the room.

Jazz stayed still just to tease him. “Oh?”

“Yes,” Prowl purred, closing the distance between them. “Someone was waiting for me.”

“Hope they were worth it.” It was taking every ounce of control Jazz possessed to stay put and not jump Prowl like an adolescent with their first lover. It wasn’t like they hadn’t bent the regs a few times over the vorn since Prowl had enlisted, when their paths managed to cross. He hadn’t been deprived of Prowl.

“They are.” Prowl stopped in front of him, hauled him into a kiss that was nothing less than a demand for Jazz to be his, nothing less than Prowl making a claim.

Jazz kissed him back eagerly, damn near swamped with the satisfaction and desire, the joy Prowl felt at being with him again. It had been less time than Jazz had expected. It had been far too long.

“Feed from me,” Prowl breathed. “Do it. Take as much as you want.”

Jazz shuddered and did begin to feed, but nearly not as much as his instincts screamed at him to. “Just for the record, you’re okay with me feeding on your emotions with no stated limit?”

“I trust you.” It was hard to, you know, converse while exchanging demanding, greedy, kisses, but Prowl managed it. “I give you permission. I consent.”

Frag it that’d have to be enough for anyone. Jazz let his instincts take over, flooding him with Prowl’s emotions, an absolute feast of them. Jazz was used to feeding in little sips, nibbling at bits of emotions from his donors as he walked through a room, maybe taking a little bit more from friends and lovers who offered. He hadn’t had anything like this since leaving his enclave. All his senses were filled with Prowl, and it was absolutely fragging perfect.

“Primus!” Jazz gasped, discovering he was somehow pressed up against a wall. Prowl was busy covering his throat with dozens of tiny little kisses. Prowl was everywhere, and Jazz gloried in it. “Missed you!”

“I missed you. I want you above me, I want your mouth on my throat.” Prowl captured his mouth again, insistent but somehow sweet. “I want serious.”

Jazz, slightly high on Prowl’s emotions and his mind fogged by lust, took an embarrassing number of nano-kliks to parse that. Like, three. Then he remembered, and his spark sang.

“Yeah. Yeah, Prowler, me too.” Not exactly eloquent, definitely not his best work, but spark-felt. “I want that too.”

“Excellent.” Prowl slowed now, kissing him tenderly. “Jazz?”

“Mmm?” Jazz was planning the most direct route back to his quarters that had the lowest possibility of meeting other people on the way.

“You are worth waiting for as well.”

Chapter Text

“I’m telling you, we’re lost,” Sunstreaker complained. “And the rocks on this so-called road are nicking my finish!”

“I’m not lost,” Sideswipe insisted.

“Oh yeah?” Sunstreaker challenged. “Then where are we?”

“We’re, uh,” Sideswipe fumbled, “um, following this road. It’s got to lead somewhere.”

“Thank you, oh Sideswipe, for bestowing your wisdom upon me.” Sunstreaker made sure to include as many sarcastic markers as possible when transmitting the glyph for ‘idiot’ to Sideswipe in addition to speaking aloud. “Roads go places. Who knew.”

“We’ll get there.”

A fork in the road appeared just past a blind crest. Sideswipe slowed to a stop.

“Um…”

“Not lost, huh.”

“Shut up.” Sideswipe shifted briefly on his wheels, thinking. “Maybe we should comm the Ark.”

“Maybe we should have gotten stranded on a planet with a decent global positioning system, not one where a large hill can block the signal.” Sunstreaker did a quick scan for locals and, finding none, transformed. He scowled at the dust and grit on his finish. “We’re going to be late, and Prowl’s going to restrict me to the standard-issue polish again. I just know it.”

Sideswipe transformed as well. “It’s not the worst thing he could do. Anyway, we just need to get our bearings and…”

‘Prowl to Sunstreaker and Sideswipe. Report your location.’

Sunstreaker glared at Sideswipe with an expression that clearly said, ‘you got us into this, you answer him.’

‘Um, hi Prowl. We’re, uh, en route.’

‘Coordinates.’

Sideswipe’s shoulders slumped. ‘I’m not sure.’ Prowl didn’t say anything, but Sideswipe could picture the tactician’s expression. ‘But I can give you the last location I’m sure of and a direction,’ he offered, and did so before Prowl could say anything.

Prowl was unnervingly silent for some time. Sideswipe shifted from foot to foot. Sunstreaker wiped dust from his armour and grumbled about pebbles and mud. Finally, Prowl came back.

‘I have a SkySpy over your location. It will track you and allow you access to the humans’ GPS satellites. I suggest you take Highway 93 to your destination. It will permit you to use the highest legal speed. You will be on time.’

‘Yes, Prowl,’ Sideswipe said, humble in hopes of mollifying his superior officer.

‘Yeah, thanks,’ Sunstreaker added, not quite graciously.

‘Thank me by proceeding to your destination and completing your assignment.’

“I am never taking one of your shortcuts again,” Sunstreaker vowed to his brother as they transformed and drove off. “Glitch.”

“Fragger.”

“Slaghead.”

“Heh. You love me.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

***

Prowl closed the comm channel with Sideswipe and Sunstreaker and looked up at Jazz, who was perched on the edge of Prowl’s console.

“Do I want to know how you convinced those two to do a PR event?” Prowl asked his lover. Jazz grinned.

“I got my ways.” Jazz ‘spaced a box and held it out, flicking the lid open with a finger. “Just like I got my ways of getting some of that candy the galley’s finally producing again.”

Prowl, who secretly had a sweet tooth the size of Luna 2, focused on the tiny capsules in the box. “Lead dusted,” he murmured appreciatively.

“Yup. Didn’t forget how you like ‘em.” Jazz picked one out and fed it to Prowl, humming happily at the pleasure in his love’s face. “’m sure you can think of a way to thank me, if you haven’t already.”

“I have.” Prowl licked sweetness from Jazz’s fingers. “Somehow the schedule is such that the base racetrack is free for the next four cycles.”

“Really.” Jazz’s brows raised. “Ain’t it down for maintenance, though?”

“The time required for maintenance may have been exaggerated,” Prowl admitted.

“Uh huh. And that four cycles starting when your shift ends…?”

Prowl folded his hands on the edge of the console, the picture of a prim and proper officer. “You have ‘ways’, I have planning abilities well above the average.”

Jazz chuckled. “And don’t I love you for it. Happy anniversary to you too, Prowler.”

“Happy anniversary, my Jazz.”

Chapter Text

“…and then Cliffjumper said, “but what about his bumper?” Bluestreak finished the story he’d been telling with a laugh.

Hound chuckled along with him, catching one of the sniper’s gesturing hands and bringing their clasped hands down to rest on Bluestreak’s chest. They were in their favourite spot in the woods outside the Ark, enjoying a few hours of privacy. It wasn’t easy sometimes, having a relationship with humans wandering around. Hound sat with his back against a thick, sturdy tree and Bluestreak sprawled on his back on the ground, head pillowed on Hound’s lap. Looking up, they could see the stars, bright against the clear sky, through the branches overhead.

“You telling me about it is almost as good as being there, Blue.”

“Thanks, Hound. You know, it’s great that you let me talk as much as I want. A lot of people say I talk too much. I know it used to bother Prowl when we were juveniles because he’d be trying to work – we’re not that far apart, age-wise, just enough that he always had more schoolwork than I did – and I’d ask him questions about everything he was doing.”

“Probably why you got good grades when it was your turn to do the same schoolwork,” Hound commented.

“Haha, yeah.” Bluestreak resettled himself slightly, played with Hound’s fingers. “Hey, Hound, remember how we used to go camping in the Cable Jungles? And that one time in the Korious Desert?”

“Yeah, Blue, I remember.” Hound smiled fondly. “We were camping when I asked to court you. I’d never forget that.”

“You brought chrome-alloy cakes with aluminum filings on them, and we sat outside the shelter and watched the aurora borealis,” Bluestreak remembered. “You got to see the aurora borealis on this planet when you went to the North Pole and met Skyfire, right?”

“Sure did.”

“Are they anything like Cybertron’s? I’ve never been far enough north on Earth to have seen them.” Bluestreak had stayed behind to patrol when Hound and the others had undertaken the mission to stop Decepticon mining in the Arctic.

“They’re a lot like Cybertron’s, Blue,” Hound said. “Maybe someday we’ll see them together.”

“Maybe. I can ask Prowl to assign us both the next time there’s a mission far enough north. He’ll probably do it if I ask him just right.” Bluestreak sat up, shifting, so he was sitting in Hound’s lap, leaning back against other mech’s chest.

“Oh? And what’s ‘just right’? When he’s with Jazz?” Hound locked his arms around Bluestreak, enjoying closeness and warmth – and keeping a sensor out for any of the humans. Much as he liked Spike and the others, and believed their friends wouldn’t care, everyone had standing orders to keep relationships quiet around all humans. Their ideas around gender could be so rigid.

“Sometimes, but not always. Sometimes I just wear him down by talking to him until he gives in. It’s worked ever since we were juveniles and you’d think he’d have gotten used to it by now and it wouldn’t work anymore.” Bluestreak tipped his head back far enough to kiss the edge of Hound’s jaw. “One of the things I love about you, you don’t mind hearing my voice all the time.”

“I don’t,” Hound agreed, cuddling happily. “I love your voice.”

“I love yours too.” Bluestreak shut his optics off and rested in warmth and comfort while he could, mind blessedly empty of the past. “Hound?”

“Yeah, Blue?”

“I know you love Earth, and I like it too, and it really is pretty here, but – can you show me the Cable Jungles? Just for a bit.”

“Sure thing, Bluestreak. We’ll go back there someday, you know,” Hound reassured him as he powered up his holoprojectors. “I’ll take you camping, and we’ll ‘charge under our own stars again.”

Bluestreak settled himself more comfortably and looked up at the illusory vines blocking out the alien sky above.

“Looking forward to it, Hound.”

Chapter Text

Jazz had been housesitting over the summer when he had met Prowl, a wizard. (He didn’t mention that part when talking about Prowl.) Prowl had banished the wight that had been feeding on Jazz’s dreams, then stayed a few days at the house. Nothing had happened then, even though they were each clearly attracted to the other, and Prowl had left with a promise to find Jazz later. They’d begun seeing each other after Prowl had shown up on Jazz’s doorstep and taken him to dinner and then to send some poltergeists on their way to whatever afterlife there was. (That part hadn’t been planned, and Jazz didn’t include it when asked about their first date.) Later they’d cleansed a cursed mirror in the house Prowl had afterward chosen to buy. A couple of days ago they’d freed a mini-cassette who’d been trapped in a movie for about eighteen thousand meta-cycles.

The mini-cassette, Rewind, had been reunited with his host, Blaster, and his sibling mini-cassettes. Jazz still had a good feeling about that one, and he didn’t think it’d fade anytime soon. It went to prove a few things Prowl had said about wizards being meant to do good in the world. There had been exceptions. Jazz knew about Shockwave, the wizard who had cursed the now un-cursed mirror that hung on the third-floor landing, and whoever had trapped poor Rewind. Rewind’s memory was a little fragged from his being confined as data for so long, and he hadn’t been able to say. Still, the little guy had Prowl’s comm frequency if he was able to recover anything.

Today, though, there should be no surprises. Today was the day Prowl moved into his new house, the one whose music room had already been promised for Jazz’s use any time he wanted. They had been through the house before, the cursed mirror was cleansed, all the furniture came with the house, so that’d been vetted too. Prowl had made a couple of references to getting a workshop set up but as far as Jazz knew the wizard didn’t have any personal possessions that didn’t fit in his subspace. The workshop gear would probably be bought new. There wouldn’t be anything that could try and feed on him, or twist him into a parody of himself, or chuck stuff at them. There would just be him, and Prowl, and a big empty house with big empty beds that Jazz had plans for.

Of course, as soon as Jazz pulled up in front of Prowl’s townhouse and transformed he knew he’d been wrong. Two delivery mecha were carrying crates – dull, dinged, old boxes with glyphs carved on them – large enough to hold small pieces of furniture into the house and Prowl was standing off to the side, watching.

Prowl’s optics brightened as soon as he saw Jazz, and he walked over – effortlessly dodging one of the movers – to greet the student with a kiss.

“Heya, babe,” Jazz said, perfectly happy to be wrapped up in Prowl’s arms in front of Primus and everybody. “What kinda magical items are you moving in today?”

Prowl tipped his head to the side a little and smiled. “What makes you say they’re magic?”

“Well, they’re yours,” Jazz said pointedly, earning a soft huff of laughter, “and they’re carved with your Wizard’s Alphabet, and, so far, I haven’t seen something with that on it hasn’t been magic.”

“’Wizard’s Alphabet,’” Prowl repeated, clearly amused at the nickname Jazz had given the ancient glyphs. “Yes, I suppose that’s an apt name. The crates contain the equipment for my laboratory and my personal possessions, many of which are, yes, magical in nature.” He regarded Jazz for a few nano-kliks. “I suppose you never have seen me with more than I have in my subspace, have you? It’s true that I have been nomadic for a very long time, but I did once have a home, in Cronum. All that remains of it now are the deep vaults, where these were stored until I retrieved them recently. An acquaintance was good enough to retrieve them and have them shipped to me.”

That was the most Jazz had ever heard Prowl say about his original home and his life before becoming a nomadic hunter. Jazz tended to live very much in the present and hadn’t given too much thought to Prowl’s past. If the wizard wanted him to know about it, he’d tell him. Besides, Prowl was one of the last wizards and his purpose, hunting down predatory magical creatures, had finished when he’d banished the wight. It didn’t take much to see that Prowl might not be ready to talk about his history.

That, and getting information out of him tended to be only a little less difficult than pulling scraplet teeth. Prowl had lived a long time with only himself for company.

“So you know what all’s in the crates?” Jazz asked. “We’re not gonna find some weird cursed thing, or someone trapped in something, are we?”

“I’m aware of the contents,” Prowl assured him. “Everything is contained and safe.”

Jazz nodded. “Okay. And you’ve been over the house?”

“I have. It’s clean.”

Jazz pressed on. “We’re not likely to be interrupted by, don’t know, vampires or were-mechanimals or the stars aligning and bringing some freaky interdimensional horror here?”

Prowl kissed him again, faintly trembling with laughter. “Not tonight, dearest, no.”

“Better not,” Jazz grumbled, but playfully.

One of the movers approached, meaning they had to separate, and handed Prowl a tablet to sign off on. Prowl thumbed the signature block to leave his imprint, and the tablet chirped in acknowledgement. He and the movers wished each other a good mega-cycle, and then Prowl and Jazz were alone.

“It’s been quite a long time since I lived in a home of my own,” Prowl observed, looking up at the front of the house. “Space, a bed every night, a kitchen, a proper workshop.”

Jazz took Prowl’s hand, and they walked up the steps into Prowl’s new home.

“This really means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” Jazz asked.

“Yes.” Prowl opened the door and drew Jazz in with him. The door closed, silent and automatic, behind them. “I didn’t realize how much until I saw my possessions being carried in. The idea of being at home, stationary, in one place for as long as I wish, I – I had forgotten…”

“’S okay if you can’t say it yet,” Jazz assured him. “Can’t say I totally get it cause I ain’t been through it, but I get that it means a lot to you. Want me to help you unpack, help get your new home all set up for you?”

Prowl hadn’t let go of Jazz’s hand, and now he lifted it to brush little kisses across the backs of the fingers. “I’d like that very much.”

Prowl had a total of six crates, and the movers had put them in the appropriate rooms, for which Jazz was grateful because they looked heavy. The first one they unpacked was in the basement, which held the kitchen and the room Prowl had marked as his workshop. Apart from some stuff that looked like it belonged in a chem lab, a lot of what was in the workshop crate just looked like knick-knacks. Jazz had always liked knick-knacks – his mentor, Half-step, used to bring Jazz souvenirs from places he’d been on tour – and not only were these pretty cool, but they also gave him some insight into Prowl. Sometimes the insights were strange ones. Sometimes the items just raised more questions.

“Why do you have a stuffed alloygator?”

“Because I have a workshop. Why else?”

“Oookaayy…Wizard thing.” Jazz should’ve known: he was usually pretty good at spotting those. “Got it. Where d’you want it?”

The crate in the living room held a pair of chairs and a little table that went in front of the window facing out on the rear terrace, plus a few ornaments Prowl helped Jazz place. They gradually moved up through the levels of the house, which had only two rooms on each floor but was still much larger than anywhere Jazz had ever lived, unpacking and arranging.

The whole time, Prowl kept finding excuses to touch Jazz. Just little things: a hand on his back as a caution when the wizard passed by, the brush of a shoulder as they both leaned into the crate for something. A touch on his wrist, hip, or neck here and there. All of it deliberate, none of it overtly or obviously erotic, not one bit, and it was all driving Jazz to distraction. Jazz did his best to give as good as he got but if he had the same effect on Prowl, the older mech didn’t show it. It was putting Jazz on edge in all the best ways and he swore the moment the last item out of the last crate was in place he was going to pounce. If Prowl didn’t get him first, of course. Jazz was okay with either one.

The music room didn’t have a crate, but Prowl took a couple of small boxes out of the one in the library and carried them over.

“I mean this space to be yours,” he said to Jazz, with a little of that adorable shyness tinting his voice for the first time in deca-cycles, “but I thought these would fit well in here.”

“Thanks, Prowl.” Jazz accepted the boxes, setting the bottom one aside temporarily on a side table and opening the top one. It held a beautiful crystal sun-catcher with Wizard Alphabet glyphs carved into the dangling multicoloured crystals. Jazz held it up to the light just to watch the crystals shimmer. “’S gorgeous. What do the glyphs mean?”

“’Peace,’ ‘health,’ ‘home.’” Prowl touched each crystal in turn as he spoke, though he didn’t read off all of them. “You’ll have to learn the Wizard’s Alphabet to read the rest.”

“Was going to ask you to teach me that, actually.” Now he was even more curious. Jazz glanced down into the box, didn’t see any kind of fastener. “Is there a hook or something in the box?” It might be tucked underneath the soft foam the crystals had been nestled in, but Jazz didn’t have a hand free. “I want to put it up, but I want it done right. Don’t want it to fall.” Prowl’d kept this all this time, it had to have meaning to him.

Prowl paused. “I don’t recall. I’ve not seen it in quite some time, of course, and I’m afraid the minor details of old memories are often difficult to access.”

“I’ll check later,” Jazz promised, carefully settling the sun-catcher back in its case. They had to buy hardware to hang or place a few other things, he could pick some up for this one at the same time. “It’s gonna look amazing once it’s up.”

“It casts light for metres when the sun hits it just right,” Prowl volunteered as Jazz opened the second box. “Ah, those. You’ll like those.”

“What do they do?” Jazz asked, picking up one of the seven smooth, transparent, spheres with a glyph encased inside and examining it. Each one was the size of a cue ball and had an accompanying bronze stand.

“Set them up and see,” Prowl suggested. “You may be able to get them to work better than I ever could, in fact.”

“So, they’re not magical?” Jazz was puzzled but took a seat on a nearby sofa with a low table in front of it and started to set the spheres up.

“They are.”

“Okayyy…”

The stands had glyphs done in filigree on them, tiny barely readable things, that matched the ones inside the spheres. They’d been put back in the box out of order, which seemed out of character for Prowl but might have been on purpose since Prowl was obviously teasing Jazz with a puzzle. Prowl perched on the arm of the sofa and watched him set the spheres up in their proper order. Nothing happened, but Jazz wasn’t really surprised. If it were that simple Prowl wouldn’t have said Jazz might be able to get them to work better.

Alright, well, they had glyphs. They weren’t glyphs Jazz recognized from the Wizard’s Alphabet, but they were somehow familiar, so he picked one up and examined it. The glyph was more ornate than the ones Jazz was used to, but if he ignored the flourishes and accent marks and focused on the core of it…

“Musical note,” he said triumphantly. “Got it!” Prowl made an approving sound and Jazz rearranged the spheres into the proper order of the scale. “Magic and music, huh?” He hummed a note, and the matching sphere glowed red. He hummed the sharp, then the flat, of the same note and the shade of red changed with each.

“I’ve wanted to show you these almost since I met you,” Prowl said. “Since you played for me the first time.”

“I just – these are amazing!” Jazz picked up one of the spheres, the blue one, and examined it while he sang a scale to make them all light up, one after the other. “Where did you even find them?”

“I bought them long ago, but I am not a musician.”

“So there’s more to them than just pitch?” It wasn’t the first time Prowl’d drawn connections between music and magic.

“Yes.”

“You’re gonna have to explain the whole music-magic thing to me sometime,” Jazz said.

“It’s difficult to explain,” Prowl said, and not for the first time. “It would be much easier to show you the ways I see and hear them.”

Jazz’s fuel pumped faster through his lines, like he was revving up for a race. He hadn’t quite cooled down from Prowl’s earlier teasing either.

“I’d like that,” he said, tipping his head back to look up at Prowl.

Prowl’s hand closed over the little sphere, wrapping warmly around Jazz’s fingers.

“I think that’s enough unpacking for today,” the wizard murmured, bending down to claim a kiss. Prowl took the sphere from Jazz’s hand and set it back on its little stand without looking, or even breaking the kiss. “Come with me.”

Frag, yes! “Upstairs?” Jazz managed, against Prowl’s mouth.

“Upstairs,” Prowl agreed.

Jazz was remarkably glad the house had ramps connecting the floors because he wasn’t sure he could have managed stairs. Not with Prowl taking him to bed, not with their frequent pauses to kiss and touch and ramp up each other’s need.

“I should caution you,” Prowl said as they hit the fourth-floor landing, “interfacing with me can be…intense. I’ve processing power well above the average. It can be overwhelming, I’m told. You must tell me if it’s too much.”

From a lot of mecha that would’ve sounded like bragging. From Prowl, Jazz had no doubt it was just a fact.

“I will,” Jazz promised. “Not scared though. Getting overwhelmed’s kinda the point for me.”

Prowl’s optics darkened with lust. “Good. This way.”

The room Prowl had picked for his own was the master suite on the fourth floor. Jazz hadn’t been in it before, and now all he registered was ‘big,’ ‘fancy,’ and ‘has an insanely comfortable bed,’ that last as Prowl guided him down onto it. Then Prowl was above him, astride him, filling all his senses.

Prowl took Jazz’s hands in his, leaning over him and pressing their linked hands down on the mattress. Their hip and wrist ports were aligned, ready for them to open and make the connections. Jazz could hear the wizard’s systems running hot, feel the tremble of eagerness in his legs. Prowl’s voice was thick with desire when he spoke.

“Open for me, dearest Jazz?”

“Yeah,” Jazz agreed eagerly. “Anything for you, babe.” He opened the ports on his wrist, on his hips, gasping and arching when Prowl’s jacks slid home. “Prowl, please…”

“Go on,” Prowl urged. “Connect. I want to feel you in my systems.”

Jazz didn’t need more encouragement than that. Prowl shivered when Jazz plugged into him. The connection established fast, driven by Prowl’s powerful systems and Jazz’s want.

“Ah,” Prowl breathed at even this light touch of Jazz’s processor. “Wondrous.” He squeezed Jazz’s hands. “Let go for me, my darling,”

Jazz did so, feeling himself beginning to tip over into everything that was Prowl, tip and finally fall.

***

Prowl shook Jazz gently awake at an hour of the morning that Jazz would have preferred not to see on his weekend. It might be normal for most mechs, but Jazz was a performer mentored by a performer and was naturally someone to stay up till well after midnight and ‘charging late. Weekends were supposed to be his break from weird ‘normal-mech’ cycles! Not to mention he’d been hoping for some lazy cuddling and ‘facing with his favourite wizard once they were both awake.

“I want to bring you in on a communiqué,” Prowl told him. “It’s from Rewind. Please accept.”

“Mmf. Sure.” Jazz accepted the request and slumped back down on his pillow, on his side facing Prowl, optics dimming. The sooner that whatever this was got done, the sooner they could jack back into each other. Jazz had never minded having a third in the bed, but this wasn’t what he’d been thinking of.

‘Rewind, Jazz is on the comm with us now,’ Prowl said. ‘Please, continue. You said you have recalled who trapped you?’

‘Yes. It was Shockwave.’

Prowl frowned, and Jazz regretfully gave up his plans for the morning. That was Prowl’s ‘must solve the problem’ face and while he wore it any other activities were pretty much out.

‘I see,’ Prowl said. ‘Do you yet recall why, or how?’

‘Not yet. I’m working on it with Blaster.’

‘Please continue. Compile a file on everything you remember, whether it is clear or not, and forward it to me when complete.’

‘I’ll do that.’

‘Thank you, Rewind.’

Everyone said their farewells, even Jazz who hadn’t contributed anything else, and the comm ended.

“Second time Shockwave’s come up in less than two deca-cycles,” Jazz observed.

“True,” Prowl acknowledged. “But given the small number of wizards turned warlock it's hardly surprising his would be the designation connected with two negative events. Still,” and to Jazz’s surprise Prowl lay back down, hand on Jazz’s hip, “it has kept for eighteen thousand meta-cycles. It will keep until Rewind’s file is complete.” He regarded Jazz analytically. “You seem surprised.”

Jazz shrugged the shoulder he wasn’t lying on. Okay, maybe it was petty, but… “You had your ‘gotta solve it’ face on. Usually means you’re about to get into whatever just got your attention.”

“Ah, my love,” Prowl said with genuine understanding. He slipped a hand between Jazz and Jazz’s pillow, cradling the musician’s face in his palm. “I had much rather spend the morning with you.”

Jazz smiled, immensely relieved. “Yeah? Good.” He claimed a warm, lazy kiss that filled him with contentment. “Hey.”

“Mmm?” The hand Prowl had had on Jazz’s hip was beginning to wander to some enticing places.

“You used the ‘L’ word.”

“I did, yes.”

“The ‘Big ‘L,’’” Jazz pressed, elation growing inside him.

“Yes...” A teasing smile, at odds with the wizard’s gently rousing touch, quirked one corner of Prowl’s mouth.

Okay. Wow. They were having it. They were having this conversation. The one Jazz had been wondering how to bring about for mega-cycles now and Prowl just dropped it on him. It was so very – very Prowl Jazz couldn’t help but grin.

“Yeah, babe,” Jazz said warmly, feeling Prowl’s fingers requesting entry to his wrist port. He granted it gladly, eagerly anticipating the slide and lock of Prowl’s jacks. “Love you too.”

Chapter Text

Enforcer Bluestreak heard the incoming Seekers before he saw them, shouted to his teammates to take cover, switch to live ammo instead of the dummy ammo for the training exercise they were on. They were out in the open, caught in an area that should have been safe. Praxus was neutral!

Enforcer squads were good and Bluestreak’s one of the best but, caught unawares, they were no match for heavily armed Decepticon forces. Bluestreak found a crevasse between rocky outcroppings and dug in, picking Decepticons off as fast as he could. Radioing for help was useless: the signal was jammed. Bluestreak swore and fired steadily, never missing. His position, while secure, meant his overhead lines of sight were nonexistent. He couldn’t shoot the Seekers in the air unless he moved and moving would make him even more of a target. He was trapped, low on ammo, and all too aware of his squad mates falling all around him.

“Remember our orders!” someone Bluestreak guessed was the lead Decepticon bellowed over the din of the firefight. “Megatron wants one left alive!”

Bluestreak’s internals felt like they had been dropped into nitrogen. He didn’t want to think about what Megatron would want one of them left alive for.

The Decepticons had caught on to his location, and that he never missed, and had taken to the air, bombing all around his position till Bluestreak’s armour vibrated from the concussive force. His audials shut down to prevent damage, unable to handle the noise. Bluestreak fired whenever he saw even a hint of an enemy, whether it would be lethal or not, until he ran out of ammo. All he had left was his baton.

He couldn’t take them all on, but he could do some damage when they came to pry him out.

***

The Enforcer pushed to his knees before Megatron was battered, scorched, dirty, missing paint, and still defiant. Bluestreak had fought hard, but he’d been too outnumbered to prevent himself from being taken down. He forced his audials back online so he could gather information and because he needed, more than ever now, to be aware of his surroundings.

“One left alive, as you commanded, Lord Megatron,” the Decepticon who’d led the raid on Bluestreak’s squad of Enforcers said. The speaker had to keep a hand on the back of Bluestreak’s neck to force his head down.

“You’ve done well, Ramjet,” a deep, rough, voice said. Megatron, Bluestreak guessed. The Decepticon leader sounded pleased. “He still has some fire left, I see.”

Ramjet gave Bluestreak a shake, earning a snarl. “He’s responsible for most of my casualties. Are you sure I can’t have him afterwards?”

“You may not. After all, what use is a witness if they do not survive to spread the word?”

“I’m not going to do anything for you,” Bluestreak spat. “Praxus is neutral, we have no part of your war with the Autobots!”

“As of today,” the warlord promised, “there are no more neutral cities.

“Flatline! Attend to our – guest.”

It took three Decepticons to hold Bluestreak down and truss him up in restraints so someone Bluestreak guessed was Flatline could jack into his systems and brute-force past his defences. Bluestreak’s control over his external sensors and motor relays were stripped away, vocalizer was muted: his spark spun wildly, and he could feel himself falling into a panic – and then that was taken away from him, too. Intellectually, he recognized his systems were engaging in panic, but Bluestreak himself was strangely removed from it.

Flatline’s presence was removed from Bluestreak’s awareness, and Bluestreak was jerked back up to his knees, dragged over the ground unable to fight back. He thought he recognized this place as a rise on the outskirts of Praxus, one with a view of the city, set aside as a park. He’d been up here with his family at night once. Crystals had been growing wild in the park, and they’d glowed softly in the moonlight. Now, it was a Decepticon encampment. The crystals were probably gone.

Bluestreak felt a weirdly disconnected sense of sadness over the loss of the crystals.

The Decepticons who were dragging him – he couldn’t see enough of them to give them any kind of identification – finally came to a stop. Helpless, Bluestreak was yanked up and back, forced to kneel upright as he was bound to a pole, head clamped upright so that he looked out over Praxus. Without control of his optics, he could only look out over Praxus. His thoughts raced frantically, not understanding, trying to work out what this could possibly mean, why he was here, what Megatron had meant by ‘witness.’

When the shockwave hit and Praxus began to burn everything was made horrifically clear.

Chapter Text

Prowl was exhausted. On a dare from his sibling, Bluestreak, and his friends Trailbreaker and Hound, he had agreed to spend the night in a ‘haunted’ house to prove there was no such thing as ghosts. They had driven for cycles just to get there on top of having had a full day already. Prowl had expected to go in, explore the abandoned house, and then find a quiet place to read for a bit then shut down for the rest of the night. The house was empty, and the way it appeared the inhabitants had just gotten up and left made it creepier. Still, there had been no ghosts, and everything had pretty much been going to plan right up until Prowl had set foot on the attic stairs.

Rage had pushed at him, followed by someone snarling at him when he began to ascend the stairs anyway. Put off, but concerned that someone might be injured, Prowl had gone up to the attic anyway and discovered a-a being in the shape of a mech, chained and trapped. The being, who said Prowl could call him Jazz, had been called and bound by the conjurer who’d owned the house. Prowl would have called it a delusion except there was something about Jazz that was different. Otherworldly. Still, in the form of a mech, they were affected by the physical much the same as a mech would be, and Jazz had been starving. Prowl had fed and freed them – and released a second entity, one whose summoning had been done incorrectly, corrupting them into a demon. The demon could not be let free of the house and, in his weakened state, Jazz was not able to banish and fight them at the same time. Prowl had been the one to fight the demon, and he was still not sure how he had held out until Jazz had been able to complete the banishment.

After the fight Prowl had gone to check on Jazz and had seen Jazz.

(There had been light…)

Magical binding undone, and the demon gone, Jazz had been healed of energy deprivation and damage by their…kin, Prowl guessed was the closest word. They had also decided to stay on Cybertron for a while, and that seemed to mean staying with Prowl, at least for the time being.

The two of them made their way out of the house much faster than Prowl had made his way in. They were on the second-floor stair, heading down, when Prowl heard his sibling and friends on the first floor. It occurred to Prowl, suddenly, that he had no idea how to explain Jazz.

“Just tell them the truth,” Jazz said when Prowl asked them what to say. That hadn’t been exactly what Prowl meant, but instead of asking again he devoted a processing thread and a good chunk of memory to working it out.

“Prowl!” Bluestreak exclaimed when Prowl and Jazz met him, Trailbreaker, and Hound on the first floor. Bluestreak darted over to Prowl and hugged him tightly, clearly worried about his sibling. “Are you okay? We were outside in the shelter, and we could hear noises coming from the house. Did something happen? Did you fall? It wouldn’t be like you to fall, but – ” It was when Bluestreak stepped back to look Prowl over for damage that Jazz’s presence finally registered. “Oh. Um. Hi. I’m Bluestreak, Prowl’s sibling. That’s Trailbreaker and Hound behind me. Hound’s the green one. Uh, we didn’t know anyone else was in the house. Are you here hunting for ghosts, too?”

Jazz smiled. “No, young one, I’m not.” They looked Trailbreaker and Hound over. “Tell you what, let’s get Prowl here somewhere he can rest before he shuts down and he and I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Not in the house, please,” Prowl added. He wanted out of here – probably not as badly as Jazz did, though.

Hound looked uncertain. “Well, there’s a monastery not far from here. I know they’ll take in travellers for a night or two.”

“That’ll be fine,” Jazz assured him.

“Can you make it, Prowl?” Trailbreaker asked. “I know the place Hound means, it’s maybe a cycle out.”

“I can make it,” Prowl promised. His exhaustion was mental and emotional, not physical. So long as he didn’t have to think much, he would be fine. Granted, it was hard for Prowl to stop thinking. His sator, a racer who experienced the same problem, had taught him some meditative techniques to use while driving. (Hunter and Breakneck had asked Vector Sigma for a juvenile spark with what each found to be the best qualities in the other. Prowl had remembered, during his fight with Barricade, experiencing their love and joy when he onlined for the first time.)

“We’ll be right there if you need us,” Bluestreak told Prowl. “You can ask me for anything, you know that, right, Prowl?”

“I know, Bluestreak.” Prowl spontaneously hugged his sibling again. “Let’s go.”

Prowl wound up in the middle of the little convoy as they drove to the monastery. Jazz took up the rear, and Bluestreak managed to get himself between Prowl and Jazz, apparently unsure about the mystery mech.

‘Your sibling loves you very much,’ Jazz sent to Prowl. ‘He has a good spark.’

‘Yes, he does.’ Prowl had been there, to the minor scandalization of the attending priest, when his sibling had been sparked. He’d seen the glow of Bluestreak’s spark for barely a nano-klik, but he remembered how warm it had seemed. Prowl had been determined to look out for his sibling from that moment on.

‘So do you. Really looking forward to getting to know you better, Prowl of Praxus.’ There was warmth in the glyphs Jazz used.

Prowl had never entirely known what to do with compliments or personal interest and fell back on shy silence. Bluestreak often filled that silence for him, but Bluestreak had not been included in the comm.

The monastery was nearly as hidden as the house they had just left had been but not nearly as intimidating. Lights lit the long drive into the campus and spilled from the windows of the temple. Prowl was not given to worship or religion in general, but he was comforted by the display.

The five of them transformed as a monk, painted in sombre colours and bearing the insignia of the monastery, came out to greet them, bowing shallowly.

“Greetings, travellers, and welcome to the Abbey of the Cable Jungles. I am Parament.” Parament gave them a nano-klik to review her ID ping and continued. “May we assist you with fuel and housing for the night?”

Hound bowed to her in return, copied a fraction of a nano-klik later by the rest. “Thank you, Ascetic Parament. Fuel and housing would be greatly appreciated. I’m Hound, and this is Trailbreaker, Bluestreak, Prowl and – ah – “

“Jazz,” they supplied and glanced over at Parament. “We met on the way.”

Parament was looking at Jazz with a faint, curious, frown, clearly aware there was something different about them but not quite able to articulate it.

“All are welcome,” Parament said. “Please, follow me to the guest quarters. The midnight worship must not be disturbed, but you are most welcome to join us for the dawn service before you continue on your way.”

Prowl had never been told to leave anywhere so politely.

The guest quarters were, as expected from a monastery, spartan, but clean and comfortable. There were two rooms with three single beds each and not much more, and a small common room with a dining table, bearing a small pile of energon cubes, and six chairs. Prowl rather liked the austerity of it.

“Can you stay up a little longer, Prowl?” Trailbreaker asked. “I want to know what happened to you in that house.”

“And who I am, right?” Jazz asked cheerfully, not sounding offended in the least. They took a seat in one of the chairs, tilting it dangerously back on two legs till the back rested against the wall. “No problem. Sit down and let Prowler and me fill you all in.”

‘’Prowler?’’

‘You freed me, I like you. You get a nickname.’

People did not give Prowl nicknames. He was pleased that the first one came from Jazz.

‘Take a seat, Prowler.’ Jazz continued, gesturing to the chair to their right and Prowl circled the table and took it. The symbolism of being seated at Jazz’s right hand wouldn’t occur to him until later when he wasn’t so worn, hungry, and tired. For now, he was just glad to rest.

“Let’s make it quick, yeah?” Jazz said as the rest took their seats. Bluestreak sat next to Prowl, ready to support or defend his beloved elder sibling, and Trailbreaker was next to him. The seat to Jazz’s left hand stayed empty. “Prowl’s had an intense night.”

“But what happened?” Bluestreak asked, clearly frustrated and worried. “Prowl, are you alright? You don’t look hurt, but…” He trailed off uncertainly.

“I’m fine, Bluestreak,” Prowl hastened to reassure him. “It’s just – I don’t know how to begin.” He’d experienced it, and not even that long ago, but the more he thought about it, the less real he became. He didn’t even have any damage left from the fight to prove what he was saying because Jazz had healed him.

“Start with how you found me,” Jazz suggested gently. “You were almost done exploring the house...?”

“Yes, I’d just found the door to the attic…”

Prowl recounted his meeting with Jazz, how he’d helped and freed them. He explained what Jazz was and how they’d come to be trapped in the house. Relaying the fight with Barricade was hard because it was mostly a blur of impressions and memories. Telling them what he’d seen when he’d staggered up to check on Jazz was impossible. (There had been…they were…and the light!)

Bluestreak’s optics were huge by the time Prowl finished, and his defensiveness on behalf of his sibling had vanished.

“You were alone?” Bluestreak breathed, horrified, staring at Jazz. “And starving? But – how could the-the conjurer do that to you? How long were you there? Are you still hungry? Do you still need help?”

Jazz smiled at him. “In order of your questions: alone except for Barricade on the other side of that door; yes, I was starving; he was foolish and desperate and didn’t think things through; a long time; no, and; no. But thank you.”

Bluestreak still looked like he wanted to hug Jazz but wasn’t quite sure if he should. He settled for putting an arm around Prowl and leaning into him for a klik. Trailbreaker took Bluestreak’s other hand and squeezed it comfortingly. Hound, seated opposite to Jazz, was looking at the entity-in-mech-form with something like awe and Prowl was reminded that, out of the four of them, Hound was the most spiritual.

“Are you really an…” Hound’s voice trailed off as if he wasn’t sure he should finish asking that question.

Jazz nodded. “I really am. ‘S okay if you just call me Jazz, though, and if you like once you’ve had a couple mega-cycles to take it all in you and I can sit down, and you can ask me all those questions you’ve got. Can’t say I’ll be able to answer,” ‘able’ had a subharmonic of ‘allowed,’ “but you can ask.”

“I’m not sure what to make of all this,” Trailbreaker said slowly. “But if Prowl and Hound believe you it’s good enough for me. I – Well, let’s just say I don’t not believe.”

“No problem, mech. No point in being given free will if you’re obligated to believe in the one who gave it to you, right?”

“I guess…?”

“Would anyone mind if I went to bed?” Prowl asked. “I apologize, I’m just – I’ve had a trying night.”

He was answered with a chorus of reassurances that no, they didn’t mind, and he should rest if he needed to, and rose. Jazz tipped their chair back down onto all four legs and stood as well.

“I’m fresh off the line again, as it were,” they said. “Think I’ll look around the abbey for a bit, see what mortals are up to worship-wise these days.”

“I’m not sure we should wander around,” Prowl cautioned him. Jazz grinned at him.

“Hey, Parament didn’t say we couldn’t, either,” they reasoned. “Besides, I can be real quiet-like when I want to be. Trust me, Prowler.”

Prowl did.

***

Prowl slept the sleep of the just until dawn when bells rang out to summon monks and visitors to worship. He groaned and pushed himself up on his elbows to look around. Jazz was amusing themselves by performing a one-handed headstand at the foot of the second bed.

“Feels so good to be able to move again,” they said and bent at the waist until they could get their feet on the floor again. “Morning. Want to come to the dawn service with me? I didn’t slip into the one last night, but I’m still curious. I mean, I get the impression you’re not big with religion, but I thought you might like to see it. I’ve never been to a dawn service in an abbey, have you?”

“I’m not sure what I believe right now,” Prowl said honestly. “I’ll go with you.” It couldn’t hurt, and it would show respect for the monks’ beliefs after they had been kind enough to put five strangers up for the night.

“Cool. There’s supposed to be some priest from the First Temple in Iacon guest-preaching today. Been ages,” Jazz laughed, “literally, ages, since I’ve seen a priest from the First Temple. I want to see if they’re still what I remember.”

“Religion wasn’t much included in our lives as we matured,” Prowl said, keeping his voice down as they walked through the guest quarters. “Is there something special about the temple in Iacon besides its location?”

“It’s the spiritual heart of Cybertron,” Jazz told him. “Or it’s supposed to be, anyway. I didn’t get a lot from my people during our quick chat last night, but apparently, something’s off.”

Prowl had heard whispers of corruption among the priests, of course. Few hadn’t. He had never heard any tangible proof, however, merely a lot of statements along the lines of ‘everybody knows.’ His creator, Hunter, had been an Enforcer for centi-vorns and claimed that the phrase ‘everybody knows’ meant ‘everybody is imposing their own bias’ and one should wait for evidence. Prowl had no idea how to transfer data gained from supernatural beings into evidence worthy of consideration in a decision.

Prowl would have to rework some of his world-views to take Jazz and their kind into account in it. Once he’d told his creator about it, Prowl was sure Hunter would sit down with him and help him work out what he’d learned. Breakneck would take him down to the track and race him to help him clear his head.

They stood at the back of the temple for a klik, taking it in. The inside of the temple was plain, compared to the pictures of others Prowl had seen. It did have carvings, tapestries, and elegant architecture like the others, but they were simple. He wondered if they might have been made by the monks instead of commissioned from artisans.

“Yeah,” said Jazz, looking around appreciatively. “This is good.”

Ascetic Parament approached them. “Welcome, honoured guests,” she said. “I’m pleased to hear you approve of our humble temple.”

“It’s the care and devotion put into it that make a temple,” Jazz said, smiling at the monk. Their voice was warm. “I see a lot of that here. Your order does fine work.”

“Thank you,” Parament replied with a strange touch of hesitation in her voice. “Jazz, was it?” She sounded as if she had a doubt.

“That’s what they call me,” Jazz agreed cheerfully.

“Service will begin shortly.” Parament gestured to the rows of benches. “Please, be seated.”

‘She picked something up,’ Prowl observed as they walked to a seat partway back on the right. ‘Bluestreak would ask if you’re putting the whammy on the monks.’

Jazz’s glyphs were marked with amusement. ‘Maybe I’m just that gorgeous.’ While Prowl, flustered, scrambled for a reply, they continued. ‘Nah, she’s genuinely devout. Very spiritual people can pick up on what I am sometimes, even without the whammy. It’s why your friend Hound believed me right off the bat.’

‘I’m not at all spiritual,’ Prowl confessed.

‘Sure you are, there are just different kinds. Prowler, you went toe-to-toe with a demon, and you made it. Remember what you fought it with.’ Jazz gave Prowl’s hand a friendly little squeeze as they sat down, the first time they’d touched him since the attic. ‘That wasn’t a thing someone who’s not spiritual could do. Your faith is just placed in people, not Primus.’

‘You’re alright with that?’

‘Sure am. It all comes back to Primus in the end, after all. You’ve heard the phrase ‘til all are one’ before, right?’

Prowl had, but he’d never put any real thought into it. It was just something mecha said. He filed Jazz’s words with the other data he’d been collating on this whole experience, to be processed later. He wanted to talk to Hunter before he began to draw conclusions. Prowl might be an adult, but his creator had experienced so much more than he had, and Prowl had a feeling he’d want to add that data to his own.

The Iaconian priest, Censer, was very obviously not a member of the monastery. The monks were uniformly painted in sombre colours, and many had identical or near-identical frames. Censer was painted, enamelled, jewelled, and inlaid to the point Prowl wondered if he were even able to transform. Prowl contrasted him with the monks and with Jazz, who was black-and-white with red and blue accents.

Prowl had not attended a religious service before but compared to the opening benediction by the abbot, Censer’s sermon seemed less than devout. Even to Prowl’s inexperienced audial, it seemed to deal too much with material things and the perception of the Church of Primus by the public. Jazz, focussed on the priest, was unreadable.

Parament approached them again after the service ended. “How did you find the sermon, Jazz?”

Prowl found it interesting that she addressed Jazz directly with her question. He listened carefully not only to the reply but to the undertones of it.

“It was enlightening, Ascetic. Thank you.”

“I see. Please, feel free to use our chapel for meditation if you would like before you and your companions are on your way.” Parament looked at Prowl. “The offer is, of course, extended to your whole party.”

But she had made it to Jazz, specifically, first. Prowl touched Jazz’s shoulder.

“Why don’t I let Hound and the others know of the Ascetic’s kind offer,” Prowl suggested, “while you go on ahead.”

“Sounds good, Prowl. Ascetic, if you’ll show me the way?”

***

The chapel was small and simple but, like the main temple, clearly built and maintained by devotion. Jazz looked around approvingly.

“It’s older than the temple, isn’t it?” they asked Parament, who – and not to their surprise – had followed them in and closed the door softly behind them.

“It was the original temple when the monastery was first built in the Age of Origins. Later, when the monastery grew large enough, the current temple was erected at the beginning of the current Age.” Parament hesitated for a moment, watching Jazz wander the perimeter of the chapel looking at the carvings.

“Hound probably will take you up on your offer,” Jazz hinted mildly, as their circuit brought them back around. “Don’t mean to rush you but if there’s something you want to tell me…”

“I hope I’m not wrong about you,” Parament said nervously.

Jazz put a hand on her shoulder, let through a frisson of their true form. Her optics went wide, and she bowed.

“Principátus,” she murmured.

“You can just call me by my mortal designation,” they assured her. “Never have been one for ceremony. So,” he guided her over to one of the benches, “something’s up here. Sit down and tell ol’ Jazz all about it.”

“Everything was fine here until Priest Censer arrived,” Parament told them as she and Jazz sat down. “He brought…discord. I – “

Jazz let a few nano-kliks of silence go by while Parament visibly struggled to speak against a higher member of her order.

“He’s not a priest,” they told her after a moment. “Might have the title and the rank and the bodywork but it’s been a long time since he was a priest at spark, if ever. Go on. If it helps, pretty sure I outrank him.”

That made her smile and relax. She continued. “When he arrived, it was without any notice and apart from the one sermon tonight he’s been keeping himself secluded. But this isn’t a monastery priests usually come to take a sabbatical like that, and when they do, we usually know deca-cycles in advance. They want security, and usually bring a retinue that needs to be housed and fed more than we can put together at short notice. But he only brought one guard and then dismissed them back to Kaon. I heard a rumour that he’s supposed to be on sabbatical there.”

“Is he, now,” Jazz murmured. “What have you noticed about Censer that strikes you as odd?”

“One thing – it sounds strange, but – his shadow. It’s too dark and,” Parament’s voice dropped, “it doesn’t move right. Its mimicry of him is just a fraction of a nano-klik off. I wasn’t sure, so I watched and then played my memories back slowly. Does that make any sense?”

“Yeah,” Jazz said thoughtfully. “Yeah, it does. Where’s he staying?”

“There are quarters for visiting priests and monks in the east wing of the dormitory. He’s there. I can show you,” she offered. “I have chores to attend to, but I will be free again in two cycles.”

Jazz knew where it was, having explored the monastery thoroughly overnight but could tell it was important to Parament to help, to look after her beloved monastery. “Let’s do that.”

***

While Hound took the opportunity to meditate in the chapel, the others finished their breakfast at a table in the sun and waited for Jazz, and then Hound, to show up again. Bluestreak, who didn’t like to stay in one place for long most of the time, was just beginning to get on Prowl’s nerves as only a sibling could when Jazz showed up again.

“Everything all right?” Trailbreaker asked them. Jazz gave a casual shrug.

“Yeah, fine. Just talking to Ascetic Parament for a bit.” They sat down and snagged a cube from the stack on the tray in the middle of the table, sipped. “That’s good,” they said approvingly. “Listen, appreciate you all keeping me company and I am going to head to Praxus soon, but something’s come up here I’ve got to take care of. Going to be another two and a half, three cycles so you mecha can head out without me.”

“I can stay with you,” Prowl offered. He felt oddly responsible for Jazz, who hadn’t been out in the world in who knew how long. “I’m not due back at work until tomorrow.”

“If Prowl stays I stay,” Bluestreak said immediately. “I can be here for four cycles before I absolutely have to leave so I can get to work on time.”

“Without abusing your sirens,” Prowl said firmly.

“Yes, Creator,” Bluestreak shot back. “Without abusing my sirens.”

Trailbreaker looked uncomfortable. He obviously wanted to stay if Bluestreak did, but: “I can’t stay.”

“You and Hound can go back,” Bluestreak reassured him. “You should go together because it’d be boring driving all that way alone.”

“Appreciate it, Bluestreak,” Jazz said gently. “But I think four people’d be too many for this. You go ahead and go on back with your sweetsparks.”

“Oh, um, I – we – “ Bluestreak shifted a little. “How did you know?”

Jazz smiled. “I know. Go ahead. Your sibling is safe with me, I promise.”

***

After Bluestreak, Hound, and Trailbreaker left, Jazz and Prowl killed time till Parament was available by exploring the sites and shrines available to religious pilgrims. They were few, and small, but well-kept and clearly maintained with genuine devotion. Prowl could appreciate them on an aesthetic and historical level, as well as acknowledging the monks’ dedication, even though he didn’t follow their faith.

Jazz paused longest at a shrine, in what looked like the oldest part of the monastery grounds, that was dedicated to The Arisen. Prowl wasn’t familiar with the name and asked about it.

“One of the Thirteen Primes,” Jazz explained, tracing the glyphs slowly. “Just known as Thirteen, actually – their true name was erased from history.”

“Why?”

“I asked about that once. I was told I’d understand in time.” Jazz paused, hand resting lightly on the shrine. “That was a while ago, even by my standards.”

“Did you ever meet any of the Thirteen?” Prowl asked, curious.

“One or two, here and there. I didn’t really spend much time among mortals till it was time for you to start getting your cultures going.” Jazz gave the shrine an oddly affectionate little pat. “Come on, let’s go meet Parament. I’ll tell you stories later.”

Prowl felt oddly pleased with the idea there would be a later, with Jazz. He wasn’t surprised – Jazz hadn’t been hinting when they’d said they wanted to stay around mortals to make some new friends. Hell, they’d flat-out said they liked Prowl. But still, it felt nice to have it reconfirmed.

“What will you need me to do?” Prowl asked as they walked to the door of the temple, where Jazz had agreed to meet up with Parament at the appointed time.

“Probably nothing,” Jazz said casually. “I think it’s some kind of spiritual parasite feeding on Censer’s energy, or maybe a malevolent spirit that’s attached itself. Hard to tell exactly, it’s not something native to this plane or the one I’m from. I can still take care of it, though. It manifests as his shadow but if you look carefully, its mimicry is just a fraction of a nano-klik off. Parament picked up on it and told me about it earlier. Whatever it is, shouldn’t be as strong as the demon and I know you can fight one of those and hold your own. You make a good backup – and like I said, I like you, Prowler.”

“I – “

Jazz patted his arm. “We’ll talk later. There’s Parament.”

Parament’s gaze flicked from Jazz to Prowl, uncertainly. “You’re not – the same?” she asked.

Jazz shook their head. “Nope. Prowl here’s mortal like you are. He’s up to speed on things, though. Everyone ready?”

Parament led them to the monks’ dormitories, empty at this time of day. Prowl wondered what monks did when they weren’t praying or holding services but decided this wasn’t the time to question it. He could look it up later.

The monks’ rooms did not have doors, and so it was obvious which one belonged to Censer. The plain bed was covered with a luxurious-looking portable sleeping mat. The polish sitting on the low table next to the bed was a pricey, high-end brand. Prowl had seen commercials for it and knew exactly how expensive – he privately thought over-priced – it was. Admittedly, Prowl was unclear on why being devout should require living with only the basics, but it did seem like there should be limits. Especially when your income came out of public funds.

Censer was kneeling, facing away from the door, and did not register their presence until Jazz knocked on the doorframe.

Censer jerked in surprise, then stood up and spun around, a little clumsily, as if their balance were off.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “Ascetic Parament, what is the meaning of this?”

“I’m Jazz. Ascetic Parament brought me here to help you,” Jazz said calmly, using their body to block the doorway to keep Censer’s – and presumably the parasite’s – attention on him. “You’ve got a bit of a problem, don’t you, mech?”

Censer drew himself up and looked down his nose at Jazz. “You will address me as Priest Censer.”

“Nah,” Jazz said coolly. “I won’t.”

Prowl couldn’t see Jazz’s face so he couldn’t be sure, but from the way Censer’s retort turned into a shocked noise, he thought Censer had gotten a glimpse of the manner of entity Jazz really was.

Prowl didn’t think Censer was the only one. The Enforcer swore the priest's shadow, cast behind him on the wall, grew darker and rippled threateningly. Beside Prowl, Parament gasped and put a hand to her mouth.

“Y-you’re…real?” Censer asked, dumbfounded. “You can’t be real, I didn’t – “

“Really?” Jazz asked gently. “Not ever? There was never anything there, belief-wise?”

To his credit, Censer looked ashamed. “Perhaps…once…”

“And I know you noticed something wrong,” Jazz continued. “It’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You probably feel it, have been for a while. Maybe you’ve even seen it, in the reflection, or when your shadow stretches out in front of you.” From the way Censer’s optics went wide, and frightened, Prowl knew Jazz had struck home. “Been feeling tired, no matter how much you sleep. Maybe you’ve even gone back to praying when you’re not in front of an audience. This is the kinda thing you need outside help for, though.” The tilt of Jazz’s head changed, just slightly; Prowl knew they were smiling. “And it’s here.” They held out their hands. “Going to let me lay on hands or are we going to keep chatting? Cause that thing’s not going to get any happier with us…”

“I don’t deserve…”

“You don’t deserve to be consumed from the inside out, either,” Jazz pointed out. “Come on, mech. I won’t hurt you.”

“I’ve sinned…”

“Please, Censer,” Parament spoke up, her voice gentle. “Let them help you. Whatever you’ve done, or think you’ve done, you can’t make up for it if a parasite consumes you.”

Censer bowed their head. “Yes.”

Jazz stepped forward. They raised a hand to Censer’s head.

Everything in the room disappeared into darkness. Parament began to whisper a prayer. Prowl took an alarmed step forward. Intervention was not necessary, however. The darkness faded nearly as swiftly as it had appeared, revealing Censer on their knees, staring up at Jazz in shock.

“You – did it,” Censer whispered. “I feel – it took – H-how do I repay you? What do you want me to do?”

“Personally, don’t need to be repaid,” Jazz said. “But if you feel you need some sort of penance, maybe look into bringing things back to their roots – less about things and looking good, more about faith. That sort of thing.” They glanced back over their shoulder. “Pretty sure Parament here can help you out with that.”

Parament looked shocked. “I – Jazz, I’m not – “

Jazz smiled. “Yes, you are.” They turned back to Censer. “But that’s just what I think you should do. You’ve got free will so whatever you do, do it because you feel it, not because you think it’s what I want.”

*

“Do you think he’ll do it?” Prowl asked Jazz as they left. Parament had stayed with Censer, providing the shell-shocked priest with comfort and whatever assistance she could.

Jazz shrugged. “Maybe? He got a pretty big wake-up call, there. But like I said, he’s got free will and its up to him. Hopefully, he’ll let Parament help him out. She’s one of the good ones. Like you.”

“Thank you,” Prowl said softly. It seemed like such a small compliment, but the way Jazz said it made Prowl feel warm inside. “Jazz, when you said earlier that we’d talk later…did you mean later today, or – “

Jazz gave Prowl’s arm a friendly squeeze; their hand was warm. “When you’re ready, maybe in a couple of megacycles. It’s been a pretty intense few cycles for you.”

Prowl realized they were right, it had been less than a full seventy-four cycles since his sibling and friends had dared him to spend a night in a haunted house.

“It has,” he admitted. “Is every day like this with you?”

Jazz laughed and slung an arm around Prowl’s shoulders. “Stick around, and you’ll see.”

Chapter Text

“Feeling better now, love?” Jazz asked, tipping his head backward where he sprawled on the couch and looking at Prowl upside down as the tactician entered their shared quarters. “Heard your battle computer went offline earlier today.”

“It did,” Prowl replied, crossing to the couch.

Jazz did enough of a sit-up for Prowl to sit where his head had been, and sprawled back down again, head resting in Prowl’s lap. He shuffled sideways a little, so he could see more of Prowl and less of Prowl’s bumper. Not that he didn’t have every micrometer of his lover’s face memorized by now, but he still liked to look.

“You okay? No crash?” Jazz pressed. The conflicts between Prowl’s central processor and his battle computer had become fewer over time as his coding and hardware adapted. They still weren’t completely gone though. Jazz hated seeing Prowl crash.

“Not at all. I was able to connect to the human’s computer network system. It has enough bandwidth to permit me to continue tactical processing. Barely, using all of the available hardware,” Prowl added, with a touch of distaste. “I also had to cede motor controls to Chip.”

Jazz winced. “Ouch. Least it wasn’t a stranger, but still. You alright with having to do that?”

“I’m alright with not being deactivated by Decepticons, yes,” Prowl responded drily.

Jazz got that. “Yeah, I’m alright with that, too.”

“There was little choice at the time. The experience itself was unobjectionable, if tedious. A direct data transfer has more meaning.”

Direct data transfer was the shallowest level of hardline, used solely to transmit information. Each participant had no more sense of another than if they were to download from a non-sentient terminal. There were more in-depth, more meaningful, levels but a simple data transfer didn’t last long enough for them to be achieved.

“Something’s still bothering you, though,” Jazz probed. “I can tell. Come on, Prowler, tell your ol’ Jazz what’s wrong.”

Prowl sighed softly, with the gently tried patience of a long-term partner. “Must you refer to yourself in the third person?”

“Jazz knows it’ll get you to tell him what’s wron – hey!” Jazz yelped and squirmed as Prowl tickled him. “Okay, okay! Jeez…”

“Behave yourself – “

“Aww.”

“ – and I’ll tell you,” Prowl promised. He brought a hand to the top of Jazz’s helm and rubbed at one of his sensor horns.

“Mmf.” Jazz shut his optics off and relaxed. Prowl continued to rub the base of the sensor horn with tiny circles, using the perfect amount of pressure. “Shutting up, dear.”

(One reason among the many he’d always come back to Prowl and always would; the tactician had fast figured out all his best spots for petting. Even if he did sometimes take advantage of knowing where Jazz was ticklish, something Jazz had long ago sworn him to secrecy over. Hey, he had an image to maintain!)

“Very well. It was an unusual experience, not much like hardlining with a Cybertronian system. While it was not objectionable, it was – strange.” Prowl fell silent for a few nano-kliks, until Jazz made an encouraging ‘go on’ noise. “It was not the hardware, nor even the limited data transfer capabilities. Even in the most basic, non-sentient Cybertronian system and in those other alien systems I’ve experienced there is something. Some sense of the capability for more, even if the system does not have an AI. This was just…wires. Inert.”

“Huh.” Jazz thought that over. “Maybe ‘cause the system’s so primitive? I mean, the other alien systems you experienced were all built by species who’d developed real spaceflight. The hardware and the software would be more sophisticated than what the humans are running.”

“Perhaps,” Prowl allowed. He let his head fall back. “At any rate, Ratchet was able to identify the cause of the malfunction and provide a method of prevention. I don’t anticipate a reoccurrence.”

Jazz knew the signs of Prowl being tired. At the least, a brief recharge would help the repairs settle. He reached up and took the hand that was still rubbing his sensor horn, gave the fingers a little squeeze.

“Been a long day for you, love,” Jazz said kindly. “Why don’t you go lie down? Bit of sleep’ll do you good.”

Prowl sighed. “That may be difficult. My tactical processors are still analyzing all the data acquired while my battle computer was down and unable to do so in real-time.”

“I’ll rub the hinges of your doors for you till you drop off if you want,” Jazz offered. He knew Prowl’s favorite spots just as well as Prowl knew his.

Jazz couldn’t see it, but he knew Prowl smiled. Win.

“I’d like that, thank you, Jazz.” Prowl waited a few nano-kliks before adding drily, “you’ll have to get up first, you realize.”

Jazz sent Prowl flirty glyph-markers with his next words. “Convince me?”

Prowl could be incredibly fast when he wanted to be. Jazz absolutely did not squeak in surprise when he was tickled again.

At all.

…

Well, okay. Maybe a bit.

Chapter Text

Prowl sighed in relief when Jazz appeared out of the burning building into the narrow alleyway behind.

“Hey, Prowler,” Jazz said and coughed to clear his ventilation system of soot. “How’s it going? Come to check up on my work?”

“Work you weren’t supposed to be doing tonight,” Prowl reminded him sternly.

“Look, everything was going fine until the scene caught fire,” Jazz reasoned. “D’you know if anyone’s noticed yet?”

“Fire suppression services are on their way. Fortunately for you, the dispatch signal got confused – somehow – and they were initially sent to a different address.” Prowl regarded his long-term professional-and-romantic partner with disapproval. “I’d hug you right now, but you’re covered in evidence.”

“You’ve been covered in worse before,” Jazz pointed out.

“And I also really don’t want to,” Prowl continued. “Especially as I’m among those responsible for collecting the evidence, as are you. I get enough of being covered in unpleasant things in my official capacity.”

“Evidence is a really nice euphemism for energon, soot, and bits of mech,” Jazz said approvingly. He ‘spaced a cleaning cloth and began to wipe up the worst of the stains.

Prowl sighed again. “You’re completely missing the point. Do you know how angry I am at you right now?”

Jazz started to look a little guilty. “Um…I forgot about something, didn’t I?”

“You did.” Prowl provided no further encouragement or information.

Jazz frowned. “But – it’s not our anniversary, I know that…Your creators aren’t in town. My creators aren’t in town…?”

“No.”

“Um…Oh, scrap!” Jazz looked both guilty and contrite. “We’re going to dinner with Smokescreen and his racing friends tonight, weren’t we?”

“We are, yes, which is exactly why I didn’t want you to take on a contract tonight,” Prowl said pointedly.

“I would’ve been home sooner except he got off a lucky shot and – “ Jazz made a gesture to indicate an explosion. “Whumpf! Fire.”

“’Whumpf,’” Prowl repeated, raising an optic ridge. “I see.”

“Yeah. I would’ve stopped to put it out, but,” Jazz shrugged, “it doesn’t make sense someone’d murder a guy then stop the body from being destroyed. You know what the chief’d say if I fragged up an assignment that badly.”

“True,” Prowl acknowledged. “Well, I suppose if you leave now and manage not to get stopped you still have time to get cleaned up.”

“I’ll be quick as I can,” Jazz promised. “Faster if you help me, though.”

“Jazz…”

“Plus, you’ll know what kind of evidence you have to fake and hide for me?” Jazz offered. “Just in case anyone takes a second look at it since our team will probably be the ones called in on this and all.” He looked at Prowl soberly, serious for a moment. “You know I wouldn’t have taken this on tonight after you asked me not to if it wasn’t important. He was planning another homicide. I saw his gallery when I cased the place, and he was in the middle of putting his kill kit together. That’s why he had the gun. The murder would’ve been tonight or tomorrow, and he’s already skated free of one set of charges.”

“I see. That is understandable then. Hurry home, I’ll be right behind you. Use your sirens if you must. We might have to use the dinner as an alibi as well.” Prowl touched Jazz’s arm. “I am proud of you, though.”

“Thanks, lover. Kiss before we go?”

“I’m also still miffed,” Prowl reminded him. “But, continue to do well tonight, and I’ll reward you later.”

“Yes, sir!” Jazz grabbed one of Prowl’s hands and dropped a quick kiss onto it. He jogged to the mouth of the alley, checked for witnesses, then flipped himself into alt and drove off. Prowl waited for a klik then followed suit, leaving through the opposite end of the alley from the one his lover had used.

Behind them, the flames continued to climb toward the sky.

Chapter Text

One of the first things Jazz’s mentor, Half-step, had told him on the day they came home to Polyhex from Jazz’s sparking was ‘never go in the attic.’ While he was an adult, Jazz was also a newbuild with a newbuild’s need for data: his face had immediately lit up with curiosity. It was obvious there was nothing, at that moment, he wanted more than to go into the attic. Half-step, realizing he’d made a mistake, had sighed and wondered what he’d gotten himself into.

In retrospect, maybe he should have phrased his request to Vector Sigma a little differently. Jazz was clearly bright, musical, fun, friendly, with a bent for lateral thinking, but he just as clearly hated restrictions and questioned authority almost on automatic. Half-step had quickly realized he appreciated that trait a lot more when he wasn’t the authority in question.

Vector Sigma apparently had a sense of humour.

“Why can’t I go in the attic?” Jazz wanted to know. “Is it dangerous?” His visor gleamed. “Is there a secret?”

Half-step wasn’t going to get any peace until he told Jazz why he should stay out of the attic, he just knew it.

“Okay,” Half-step said, holding his hands up in surrender. “If I show you,” because Jazz would just bug him about it until he did, “d’you swear never to tell anyone else? I’m serious here, mech.”

“’Course I promise,” Jazz said eagerly. He looked thoughtful.  “I think I don’t mind keeping secrets, I just don’t like having them kept from me. So what is it?”

“This way.”

*

Jazz followed Half-step up to the attic, looking curiously around the house as they went. He’d never been in a house before. The Temple in Simfur had rooms where newbuilds and mentors or creators stayed the first day or so after the sparking, but this wasn’t quite like that.

Jazz stopped and whistled appreciatively when they passed the music room, filled with instruments and datapads of music.

“You gonna teach me to play all of those?” he asked Half-step.

“Sure am, Jazz.” His mentor smiled at him, pleased. “Got a studio in the basement. Teach you how to use that, too, if you want.”

“Yeah,” Jazz breathed. “I’d love it.”

“Solid. We’ll start once I’ve got you settled.”

They went up two flights of stairs, and Half-step paused on a small landing in front of the single door that apparently led to the attic.

“Alright,” Half-step said seriously. “Rules. Rules you can’t break cause there’re are good reasons behind them, dig?”

Jazz nodded. “Right.

“Rule one: don’t tell him your designation. He’ll know it anyway but don’t give it to him. Names have power.

“Rule two: don’t accept anything from him. You’ll incur a debt to him, and you do not want to do that.

“Rule three: don’t offer him anything. You’d think that’d make him owe you, and you’d be right, but he can twist that against you and he will.

“Rule four: don’t trust anything he says to you, ever.

“Rule five: never come up here, and really don’t ever come up here without me. Got it?”

Jazz nodded. “No names, no giving, no taking, don’t trust and don’t enter. I got it.”

“Good. Because my creator summoned a demon in the attic and it’s still there.” Before Jazz could react, Half-step opened the attic door.

The attic was bare except for a circle drawn on the floor in the center, ringed with glyphs Jazz didn’t recognize. In the middle of the circle stood a black-and-white mech with a red chevron and flaring, arched, black wings. His optics were rich red, streaming light. The mech smiled, and Jazz saw light glint off long fangs.

Jazz had had doubts about the word ‘demon.’ Those doubts were definitely gone.

“Half-step,” the demon said in a low, growly, voice. “What have you brought me today? Someone new?” His gaze fixed on Jazz and he smiled. “Very new. What a lovely present. Thank you.”

“He’s not for you,” Half-step said firmly.

“No?” The demon moved to the inner edge of the circle, put a hand up on some kind of invisible wall or force field. A shimmer rippled out from the point of contact, fading as it went.

“No,” Half-step repeated. “Brought him so he’d know why he shouldn’t come here.”

“’Shouldn’t’ isn’t ‘won’t.’ After all, you shouldn’t be here either,” the demon pointed out, “though I’m delighted you are. I do so love having visitors.”

Jazz was totally, seriously, creeped out. “Okay, don’t enter the attic. Gotcha, Mentor. No problem.”

“Jazzz…” the demon drawled out the word, drawing the glyph for Jazz’s designation on the invisible barrier; the lines were brilliant blue and hung in the air. “Young Jazz. How nice to meet you. Have you come to play?”

“How do you know my designation?” Jazz asked before he could stop himself.

The demon tilted its head back slightly. “I know.”

“If it happens in the house, he knows about it,” Half-step said ruefully. “Even though there’s soundproofing.”

Jazz turned to Half-step. “If he’s that dangerous can’t you, dunno, send him away somehow?”

The demon gave a hissing laugh. Half-step made a frustrated noise.

“He’s been dismissed from this plane, he just won’t leave.”

“I like it here.”

“But you’re trapped.” Jazz was speaking before he realized that addressing the demon directly was probably a bad idea.

The demon looked around as if deigning to notice its surroundings and bindings for the first time. “Physically. Why, Jazz? Would you like to free me?”

“I ain’t that new and gullible.”

“Come on, Jazz,” Half-step said, tugging on his arm. “Time to go.”

“So soon?” The demon drew a circle around Jazz’s name-glyph. “But you just got here. Jazz and I haven’t gotten to know each other yet.”

“And you won’t,” Half-step said firmly. “Come on, Jazz.”

“I’ll see you later, Jazz,” the demon called after them. It sounded amused. Jazz shivered as the attic door closed behind them.

“Stay out of the attic,” Jazz said to Half-step as they headed down to the first floor. “Noooo problem, mech. That is one creepy critter.”

“That he is, mech, that he is.”

***

Time passed. Jazz obeyed Half-step’s restrictions about the attic. He never even looked at the attic stairs. No matter how hard he tried, though, he was always aware, on some level, of the demon’s presence over their heads.

No wonder Half-step’s creator had chosen to go permanently on tour.

“Not that I’m complaining,” Jazz said to his mentor one night, as they sprawled over the couches in the living room sharing a bottle of engex, “but why’d you put in for a newbuild with,” he pointed up, “hanging out up there?”

“Put my name in the lottery before Creator called him,” Half-step admitted. “Wasn’t sure, at the time, if I’d ever be able to afford the priest’s fees any other way. Then, when I was called…didn’t want to lose out.” He looked at Jazz. “It bad for you? Cause you get used to him after a while.”

“Nah,” Jazz drank a mouthful of engex, passed the bottle over. “Don’t feel oppressed or whatever. Just – I always know he’s up there. Y’know?”

“Yeah,” Half-step sighed and drank. “I know.”

“Suppose I could’ve just listened when you told me not to go in the attic,” Jazz said ruefully.

Half-step laughed. “No, you couldn’t, and I love you for it.” He took another swig and handed the bottle back. “Finish that off, kid. I’m going to bed.”

***

Ten meta-cycles from his sparking, Jazz was recognized as an adult and no longer legally obligated to stay under Half-step’s mentorship. He remained in the house anyway, perfectly happy where he was and still working with Half-step as a musician. No real point in moving out if he was here in the studio half the time anyway. Plus, it gave Half-step a feeling of security when he was out of town.

Jazz was in the music room, practicing a piece on the cello – not his usual fare but hey, paying gigs were paying gigs – when the acid rain warning went off. He took a break to make sure all the shutters were closed correctly and sealed over the doors and windows, then started to practice again.

It was on another break, this time to stretch his legs and mull over how best to approach that tricky section in the bridge, that he heard a faint hissing.

Slag. That sounded like a leak. A quick search showed it was in Half-step’s room, fortunately not melting anything more important than the floor. The roof must be leaking. Great. Jazz put a glass bottle underneath the hole in the ceiling to contain the drips and fetched the patch kit and a ladder. He was going to have to go into the attic.

The demon was sitting cross-legged in the circle. Jazz’s designation-glyph still glowed faintly on the invisible barrier, as if the demon hadn’t thought it worth erasing – or liked it there. Jazz wasn’t sure which idea was more unnerving. The leak had to be fixed, though, before it got worse.

“Hello, Jazz,” the demon purred, recognizing him despite having his optics off. “Were you curious about me? It’s taken you longer than I thought to break the rules.”

Jazz ignored him and set up the ladder.

“It’s not nice to ignore people when they’re speaking to you.” Was the demon – pouting? Half-step said not to trust anything he said, did that apply to attitudes as well?

“I’m just here to patch the leak,” Jazz said, climbing the latter and doing his best to avoid the drops of acid that increased in number every klik. “I’m not staying.”

“Pity.” The demon drew seemingly abstract patterns on the barrier with its claws. “I thought perhaps you might play for me. I do love to listen to you play. You’re very talented.”

The reminder that the demon knew everything that went on in the house did not help with the creep-factor. Jazz put the gloves from the patch kit on and carefully stripped the backing away from the innermost patch, the one that would actually block the acid.

“I’m not going to let you out,” Jazz said firmly, smoothing the patch over the hole.

“I didn’t ask you to. Though, if you would, there’s so much I can do for you.”

“Don’t need nothing.”

“So, you do.” Jazz looked down in confusion, and the demon looked back up with an expression that was probably supposed to be innocent. “You used a double negative, meaning you do need something.”

Jazz shook his head and went back to his work, preparing the outer patch that would seal the inner and reinforce its staying power.

“I do not need anything,” he said clearly. “I’m fine.”

The demon shrugged. “For now. I can wait. Patience is one of my,” he grinned, “virtues.”

Jazz went down the ladder a lot faster than he’d gone up it and scattered a neutralizing agent over the hole in the floor. It was unnervingly close to the demon.

“You could come closer,” the demon suggested. “I wouldn’t mind. It does get a bit lonely up here at times.”

“Gotta take care of the rest of the damage,” Jazz said firmly, scrambling up and backing out of the attic, ladder tucked under his arm. “Sorry, mech.”

A second designation-glyph joined the first on the barrier: Prowl.

“My designation,” the demon said simply, drawing a circle around both his glyph and Jazz’s. “I’d adore hearing it in your voice sometime.”

Jazz fairly bolted through the door and was halfway to the next floor before it slid shut again.

Frag frag frag. Half-step had told Jazz not to give the demon his designation. So what did it mean when the demon gave his name to Jazz? It couldn’t be anything good.

FRAG.

***

“You did the right thing,” Half-step said when Jazz told him he’d had to go up to the attic. They were meant to be looking over Half-step’s image captures from his tour, sitting in front of a low table in the living room. “If the circle or the glyphs get damaged it’ll let the demon out. The acid eating the floor away’d do that for sure.”

“Thanks. Still creeped out that he told me his name,” Jazz admitted. “I mean, why?”

“Not sure, but I think to put you in debt,” Half-step said thoughtfully. “Did you say or do anything after he wrote the glyph?”

Jazz shook his head. “Just left.”

“So you didn’t accept it. Good.” Half-step patted him reassuringly on the hand. “I think you’re alright. Now, come on: I brought back some Protihexian whiskey for us to share. It’ll put armour on your chest plates. I’ll call someone in the morning to have the roof repaired.”

Jazz relaxed under his mentor’s reassurance and did his best to put the whole incident out of his mind. The whiskey helped.

***

Unrest rose across Cybertron. The Tri-Torus States got hit with a recession. The demand for live musicians fell. Jazz, who had moved out briefly while he attended performing arts classes at a college across the city, moved back in to save shanix and sucked up the commute. On mass transit, not even his own wheels. It added a lot to the day, and he was usually just energized enough to fuel, hang with Half-step for a few kliks if he was in, and fit in his daily practice before falling into bed.

He’d been home for about a deca-cycle before the dreams started. They were pretty standard dreams, right up until Prowl appeared in them. Jazz had no idea how long the demon had been there before Jazz realized he was dreaming, which did not make it one iota less unsettling.

“Don’t mind me,” the demon said, the first time he showed up, when Jazz-in-the-dream looked at him.

“Hey, what the frag are you doing in my dream?” Jazz demanded.

Prowl tilted his head thoughtfully. “Are you sure this isn’t my dream?”

Jazz was surprised into asking, “can demons dream?”

“Of course. Haven’t you read the poem? ‘And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming?’ It’s quite famous, I’m sure.”

“Never heard of it.” If it was well-known, Jazz had read it.

“Hm. Perhaps it hasn’t been written yet.” Prowl shrugged, wings shifting gently. “Perhaps the demon who told me about it got the quote wrong. No matter.”

“You can see into the future?” Dreaming-Jazz apparently had less of a filter than Awake-Jazz. He should really either wake up or get a handle on that.

“A small amount. Some of us more than others.” Prowl gave him a look that could almost have been coy. “Would you like to know the secret of the true nature of time?”

“No,” said Jazz, firmly, and forced himself to wake up. He eventually convinced himself that the dream had been just that, a dream, and managed to drop off again. He was able to get another cycle and a half before he had to get up for his morning commute.

Jazz had hoped that had been a weird one-off caused by stress or something. He didn’t dream about the demon for another deca-cycle and would have passed that one off as stress as well, except…

In the dream, he’d been playing one of his songs when Prowl showed up. It was a new tune, no one else had even heard it yet. The day after he had to go up and check on something in one of the storerooms that was right underneath the attic. (It had used to be a bedroom but seeing as their designated storage space was all full of a demon, a conversion had been necessary.) The backbeat of his song, the one from his dream no one else knew, was tapped out on the floor above.

Liquid nitrogen slid down Jazz’s spinal linkages.

He still felt shivery by the time he made it downstairs and was asking Half-step if he knew what the hell was going on.

“There’s gotta be some damage to the containment circle,” Half-step hypothesized. “Just enough to let it put some feelers out.”

“’Kay, the word ‘feelers’ ain’t making me feel better.”

Half-step patted his arm reassuringly. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, kid. Creator taught me a few things, lemme brush up on some of his books, and I’ll take care of it for you.”

“Thanks, ‘Step.”

***

The next day, when Jazz had classes, Half-step trekked up to the attic armed with chalk, salt, and silver. Prowl was curled up, cybercat-like, and raised his head when Half-step walked in.

“I’d hoped it would be Jazz,” the demon commented. “Or have you missed me? Half-step.”

Half-step didn’t reply, just walked across the attic to check the sigils. Finding the damaged one – near to the acid damage, probably what had eventually weakened it – he knelt and began to redraw it.

“Hmm.” Prowl rolled sinuously to his knees. “Or could it be – jealousy? After all, I’ve never whispered to you.” He paused as if considering. “No – protectiveness. Half-step, Half-step, I’m not going to hurt your young one. That would be a waste.”

Half-step continued to ignore him. Having filled in the edge of the damaged glyph with chalk, he began the delicate work of repairing the glyph’s fine silver outline. Finally, he reinforced the glyph with its own circle of salt, shoring up a potential weak spot in the demon’s containment.

“He will come up here one day,” Prowl said, sitting back on his heels. “He won’t be able to help it. He’ll come to me, and a deal will be made.”

“Leave Jazz alone,” Half-step finally snapped.

The demon smirked. “What’ll you give me if I do?”

Frustrated, and not a bit worried, Half-step left the attic without another word. A debate with a demon was something you just couldn’t win.

***

Zeta Prime was assassinated. Hostilities between Vos and Tarn intensified. The names ‘Megatron’ and ‘Decepticon’ were heard more and more.

Half-step began to talk about emigrating to one of the colonies. Spaceship travel was expensive and bound to get more so, but he’d scored a gig as part of a noble’s ship’s band, and so Half-step’s passage, room, and primary fuel were covered.

“War’s coming, kid,” he said to Jazz when he told him. “Cybertron ain’t gonna be safe much longer. You should come with.”

“Can’t.” Jazz shook his head. “I have to stay. Primus knows I love you, Mentor, but,” he shrugged, looking down sadly, “guess this is where the band breaks up.”

“Guess so,” Half-step agreed. He pulled Jazz into a rough hug. “But you look after yourself, Jazz. This ends, you come to find me, you get me?”

“I get you.” Jazz hugged him back. “Gonna miss you, Mentor. Stay safe.”

With Half-step gone, the house seemed way too big. Jazz slowly closed off sections of it, including the studio – recordings weren’t selling enough to justify its cost, and the household budget was down one income.

In the attic, Prowl waited with otherworldly patience.

***

Sentinel Prime vanished, presumed deactivated in action. Optimus Prime was named, at the behest of the Council. Megatron and his Decepticons declared war on the Autobots.

The Deceptions seized Fort Scyk, to the south of Jazz’s home.

Jazz knew when it was time to leave the stage. He packed up and sealed the house, sold off what equipment he could. Broke his spark to do it, knowing how long Half-step’d worked for it, but better than having it seized, looted, or destroyed. His last night in the house before he headed to Iacon to join up, he went up to the attic. Demon or not, he couldn’t leave Prowl here alone. Even if he wouldn’t go, the demon deserved a warning.

“Have you come to say goodbye?” Prowl inquired, standing and putting a hand on the barrier. The two designation-glyphs, Prowl’s and Jazz’s, were still hanging in the air, still circled. “How nice. You have always been such a well-mannered mortal, Jazz.”

“War’s coming,” Jazz told him bluntly. “You should go back home.”

“Afraid for my safety? How sweet!” Prowl considered. “Afraid your enemies will make a deal with me, perhaps? Ah, well, still sweet in a way.”

“Anyone can be hurt. And yeah, worried you’ll work with the Decepticons,” Jazz said. “I mean that’s what you do, ain’t it? Get people to owe you things then collect?”

“What?” Prowl was amused. “Afraid I’ll steal some sparks? What would I do with them? I’m a demon, not a sparkeater. And I wouldn’t do anything to harm you, Jazz.” The demon lingered over his name. “I’m quite fond of you, fascinating mortal that you are. So, go on, run to your war. I’ll be waiting here when you come back.”

***

The Autobots won control of Kalis. Tarn and Vos destroyed each other. The demon managed, somehow, to slip into Jazz’s dreams again.

Prowl’s dream presence wasn’t nearly as strong as it had been in the house, but he was there. Jazz could feel it. He remembered the stories Half-step used to tell him, when they were both pretty overenergized, of what demons would promise you and how powerful some of them could be. Half-step had never said why his creator had summoned a demon, but Jazz was pretty sure it had been for a favour. No one knew why, apart from ‘I like it here,’ Prowl stayed when his path home was clear and his presence in this plane was limited to a circle not even two full paces wide.

“Are you waiting for me?” Dream-Jazz asked one night. Prowl was a darkly shimmering presence always at the edge of his vision.

“Yes.” A knowing smile curved Prowl’s lips. “You’ll be ready soon.”

Pre-war Jazz would have replied with a flat ‘no.’ Present-day Jazz was less sure.

***

Praxus fell. Jazz, assigned to search-and-rescue, saw the devastation and knew it was hopeless.

He went home.

The house he’d shared with Half-step for most of his life up to the war was still intact. The terraced backyard was a shamble, of course, and a fire had scorched one side, but it was whole. Jazz checked the shutters and security systems out of habit, though he genuinely didn’t think it mattered anymore. Once he left here, he didn’t anticipate coming back.

Aside from being dusty, everything was as he’d left it – including Prowl. The demon was standing in precisely the same position he had been when Jazz last saw him. Mid-air, the designation-glyphs glowed in their circle.

“I’m ready,” Jazz said quietly, approaching Prowl.

“I know.” Prowl nodded down at the circle. “Break it. Let me out.”

“First I want to know what you want from me. To create the debt.” Jazz stood face-to-face with Prowl across the barrier.

“The same thing I asked for the first time we were alone together.” Prowl put a hand up, almost but not quite touching the barrier. “I want you to play music for me when I ask.”

“That’s it?”

“Those are my terms.”

Unthinkingly, Jazz put his hand on the barrier, aligned with Prowl’s. “And, in return, you’ll – you’ll help the Autobots?”

“In return, I am your servant,” Prowl said candidly. “If assistance for the Autobots is what you want, it is what I will provide.”

“Right. Okay. Least I’m gonna be damned for a good cause,” Jazz muttered. He looked down and used his foot to sweep away chalk, salt, and silver, circle and glyph. Without the barrier between them, Prowl’s hand was hot against his.

“Oh, being damned isn’t so bad,” Prowl said breezily. “Fascinating conversation, at the least. Shall we go?”

Prowl did not seem all that interested in the rest of the house where he’d existed for so long. He also didn’t speak, for which Jazz was grateful. The demon’s presence at his back was warm and heavy, even though they did not touch. Jazz didn’t speak either, not until he’d sealed the house again and they reached the road.

“Can you transform?”

“Into many forms. Including a vehicle, yes.” Prowl made a ‘go ahead’ gesture and a tiny bow. “After you.”

Primus, how he was going to explain this to Optimus, Jazz did not have the first clue.

*

Optimus Prime took the news that Jazz had recruited a demonic servant to the Autobot cause surprisingly well. It probably helped that Prowl gave Jazz advanced warning that helped Prime survive Skyquake’s assassination attempt at Technahar.

“Well, aren’t you interesting,” Prowl observed on their first face-to-face meeting, seated next to Jazz in front of the Prime’s desk. “So much potential.”

Optimus looked over at Jazz who shrugged. “He’s always saying things like that. Doesn’t always explain them, though.”

“Sometimes I only have the impression, and that’s all I can tell you.” Prowl’s expression turned considering, and he looked Optimus over. “You have quite the future ahead of you, but why I can’t see. But I’m sure it will be fascinating to watch.”

“Thank you, Prowl.” Optimus looked back at the demon. The streaming-light effect had disappeared from Prowl’s optics, making him less obviously demonic. “Why have you joined the Autobots?”

“Jazz wishes it, and I am his servant,” Prowl told the Prime calmly.

“Servant?” Optimus echoed and shot Jazz a look that had every potential to become disapproving.

Jazz rubbed his forehelm. “It’s – complicated.”

“Willing servant,” Prowl added. “I asked to be indebted to him. Don’t worry, it won’t cost him his spark. I’ve no wish to harm Jazz.”

“This matter of servitude,” Optimus said slowly. “How permanent is it? Could you leave if you wanted to?”

“Naturally. I am a demon, after all. We’re very skilled at twisting out of obligations.” Prowl looked from Optimus to Jazz. “I’ve no desire to twist out of this one. Jazz is hardly a demanding master, and I find the trade for my services quite enjoyable.”

Optimus’ optics flickered in surprise, and he looked questioningly at Jazz. Jazz covered his visor with a hand in embarrassment.

“For spark’s sake, Prowl, you make it sound like I’m ‘facing you.” Jazz sighed and dropped his hand to his lap, looking back at Optimus. “I play music for him. That’s all he wants.”

“A simple thing,” Prowl agreed. “Unobjectionable.” His mouth quirked up in a smile. “It’s already kept you alive, you really can’t complain.”

“I suppose not. Very well.” Optimus extended a hand across the desk for Prowl to shake. “Welcome to the Autobots, Prowl.”

***

The great Battle of Tyger Pax came to pass. The Decepticon siege of Iacon began.

Prowl, it turned out, not only could see a small way into the future but had a gift for tactics. At Jazz’s request, he put it to good use, but even he could make little headway against the Decepticons’ sheer numbers.

Prowl’s suggestion that Optimus summon a more powerful demon than himself was immediately, and firmly, shot down by both Optimus and Jazz. Prowl merely shrugged and continued to provide such metaphysical assistance he could, though it seemed to take more effort and have less effect the more time he spent with mortals.

No one save Optimus Prime and Ratchet knew about Prowl’s relationship with Jazz, and Prowl’s presence made mecha wary. He was generally given a wide berth. (The red optics and fangs didn’t help either, but Jazz swore that both were gradually becoming more Autobot-like over time.)

Still, strange and unnerving or not, Prowl’s brilliance was acknowledged, and he was respected, if not liked. Not that anyone could tell if he cared about such things or not.

It would have surprised many that he had come to, at least to some degree.

*

Demons probably shouldn’t have been able to sneak into the Prime’s private quarters. Once there likely would have been wards erected around them to prevent just that. But if there were any priests left they’d long since gone underground, and the current Prime didn’t have the knowledge needed to build wards. So it wasn’t surprising that Prowl had been able to get in unannounced.

Optimus set down his tablet – work never ceased – and looked up when he became aware of his visitor. “Good evening, Prowl,” he said calmly, as though Autobot-allied demons appeared before him in the middle of the night on a regular basis.

“Optimus Prime,” the demon’s voice was still deep, but it had lost the growling edge it had held when they first met. “I seek your wisdom.”

Optimus gestured to the chair across from his. Lacking anything resembling formal receiving rooms his quarters tended to substitute, and so he had two chairs and a table set up facing each other for meetings like this one. Well, perhaps not just like this one. So far as he was aware, none of his other officers were from another plane of existence.

“Of course, Prowl. What would you like to know?”

Prowl did not sit. “What you mortals are doing to me.”

“You’ll have to be more specific.” Optimus wondered if Prowl were being harassed. True, it would be both difficult and unwise to do so with a demon, but fear and anger made for foolish decisions. “Has someone said something?”

Prowl flexed the fingers on one hand, curling and uncurling a loose fist. “No. Not in the way you mean.”

“Then what?”

The demon hissed. “The last incursion, the successful one with minimal injured and no casualties. For planning it I have been – thanked.”

Optimus raised an optic ridge, grateful for his habit of keeping his battle mask up unless he was in his bedroom, which was a sort of inner sanctum these days. “Oh?”

“And I felt pleased. Because my work was appreciated by someone who expected nothing in return.” Prowl whirled and stalked a few paces away, turned back, finally sank into the offered chair. “Jazz – I have watched Jazz for his entire life. In the beginning, when he asked for my help, all I asked in repayment was that he played for me when I wished him to.”

“Jazz is an excellent musician,” Optimus agreed. “I’m sure he enjoys playing for you.”

“Yes, normally. Lately, there have been times I wished to hear him play but could tell he did not feel like it. And I,” Prowl shook his head, confused. “I did not ask. I did not make a claim on my debt because – because to do so would have upset him. Not wanting to upset him was more important than my own desires.”

“Prowl, it’s normal for mortals to feel pleased when someone thanks them,” Optimus said gently, leaning forward. “It’s normal to not want to upset a friend. It sounds to me like you’re developing a mortal conscience.”

Prowl mulled that over, red optics – no, Optimus saw, they were shading slightly purple – dimmed in thought. “I see,” the demon said finally. “Would you like, Optimus Prime, to know the most damning thing about this development?”

“What is it, Prowl?”

The demon’s gaze rose to meet his. “I do not believe I object.”

***

Megatron took control of Trypticon Station. Cybertron’s Core was corrupted. Sentinel Prime disappeared.

Prowl’s fangs were gone. His optics were blue-purple. His ability to see the future lessened. His tactics and strategies grew more cautious as the need to preserve Autobot numbers became more important than winning.

He told Jazz that the musician-turned-saboteur no longer had to play for him to ensure Prowl incurred a debt and was obligated to do as Jazz asked.

“Why not?” Jazz asked in surprise, looking up from tuning his electro-bass. “Are you leaving?”

“No,” Prowl said truthfully. “I’m doing it because I want to. I’m providing my aid freely to your cause.”

Jazz’s brilliant smile made something – strange happen inside Prowl’s chest. Strange, new, but far from bad. Hesitantly, the tactician smiled back.

***

Megatron reengineered Trypticon into the Nemesis. The Core of Cybertron went dark. Optimus gained the Matrix, genuinely becoming the last of the Primes. The Autobots left Cybertron aboard the Ark.

“What do you think we’ll find out there?” Jazz asked Prowl. They stood near a porthole, Jazz sheltered by a sleek black wing, watching Cybertron recede into the distance. Two pairs of blue optics were reflected in the glass.

“I don’t know. I can no longer see the future, not even a little,” Prowl confessed. “Perhaps it’s for the best.”

“Maybe, yeah.” Jazz put his hand in Prowl’s: the ex-demon looked at him in surprise, then began to slowly smile.

“Perhaps there is one future I can still see.”

Chapter Text

The last few months of Jazz’s life had been terrifying, fascinating, and amazing all in turn. He’d met Prowl, a wizard, when he had been housesitting over the summer. After banishing a wight that’d been feeding on Jazz’s dreams, Prowl had stayed on a few days. There was a definite mutual attraction, but still, nothing had happened between them. Not then, anyway. They’d begun seeing each other after Prowl had shown up in Altihex, taken Jazz to dinner and sent some poltergeists on their way to Primus or whatever happened after mecha died. Later, after they’d been seeing each for a bit (a lot more normally), they’d cleansed a mirror, that had been cursed by a warlock named Shockwave, in the house Prowl had afterward chosen to buy. After that, they’d freed Rewind, a mini-cassette, from a movie where he’d been trapped for about eighteen thousand meta-cycles. Turned out, Shockwave was responsible for trapping Rewind in the film as well as cursing the mirror. Prowl didn’t find it surprising, since there were so few wizards-turned-warlock, that Shockwave would be responsible for both, saying the probability was within expected parameters.

After telling Prowl Shockwave had been the one to trap him in the movie, Rewind had taken a few mega-cycles to further recover his memories and compile a file for Prowl to study. The mini-cassette had transmitted the data to Prowl mid-morning that mega-cycle. Prowl, respecting Jazz’s request for more in-depth explanations, waited till the student arrived at his house after classes.

“Thanks for waiting,” Jazz said, touched and pleased.

Prowl tended to get distracted and introspective when he worked out a magic-related puzzle, leaving Jazz partly in the dark. It had been a source of tension and Prowl had promised to be more careful about including Jazz in his train of thought as he worked things out. It was good to see him being mindful of that promise – Prowl hadn’t had to explain things for a long, long time – and Jazz rewarded him with a kiss.

“You’re quite welcome, darling,” Prowl said and kissed him again. “Come down to the workshop with me, and we can review and share the data.”

Technically, they could have shared the data anywhere in the house. Prowl preferred to keep most of the magic-type business confined to the one room, and that was his basement workshop.

They reached the workroom and Jazz gave the stuffed alloygator, hanging on a wall, an affectionate little pat on a sharply clawed foot on his way in. The critter had grown on him since he unpacked it from one of Prowl’s shipping crates on moving day. It didn’t have a name yet, but he was working on it.

Prowl had bought the house and the contents: the cursed mirror had made it unlivable, and the previous owner had just unloaded the whole thing. The rest of the house was elegantly decorated in the style of the period in which it had been built, sometime in the Golden Age. Prowl had moved a few things in, but not many and most of them were decorations. The house mainly looked like it had the first time Jazz had seen it, minus the dust coverings on everything.

The one exception was the workshop. That was pure Prowl. Along with the alloygator it held a pair of worktables stained and scored from experiments and such, containers with metals and weirder stuff, small votive oil lamps Jazz had yet to see lit and other oddities. Shelving units were gradually migrating in to fill up the rest of the space. Two mismatched, comfortable chairs and a small battered table were wedged into a corner; the table bore an assortment of nearly empty energon cubes that Jazz made a mental note to take to the kitchen later. An erasable board covered with Wizard’s Alphabet glyphs in Prowl’s handwriting hung on one wall. Next to it was the lunar orbit map Prowl had used during Jazz’s housesitting gig for wight-related reasons Jazz had never asked about. At the time, Prowl hadn’t seen any need to explain what he was doing in any depth at all.

To be fair, at the time neither of them had any idea the impact they’d have on each other’s lives. Prowl had no reason to believe he would ever see, or want to see, Jazz again. Jazz had been seriously weirded out by the whole thing. Falling for each other had been the furthest thing on their minds at that point. Jazz had sure been regretting the whole housesitting gig, although he’d since come to regard that as one of the best decisions he’d ever made. Everything had changed the first time he’d played for Prowl.

Prowl absently pushed some of the empty energon cubes to a different edge of the table and invited Jazz to have a seat in one of the chairs.

“Babe, you’ve gotta start remembering to take those to the kitchen,” Jazz reminded him. “It’s just across from your workshop. You’re gonna get glitch-mice in here.”

“Hmm?” Prowl looked at what he’d pushed aside, seeming to recognize it for the first time, as he took his own seat. “Oh. Yes, of course. It’s only that I get distracted.”

Jazz, knowing full well that he was one of those distractions, decided against saying anything.

“Rewind warned me that some of this may still be fragmented or incomplete,” Prowl continued. “I believe I should be able to determine why Shockwave chose to trap Rewind. The information might still be of use. Shockwave’s plans often took a long time to come to completion.”

“Did you know him well?” Jazz asked.

Prowl shook his head. “Not that well. But even when I was young, there were not so many wizards. It was difficult not to know something about each other.”

Prowl sounded – lonely? regretful? So Jazz didn’t ask when he’d been young, just held out a hand. “Hey, you’ve got me now, right?”

Prowl smiled, optics going softly lit the way they only did for Jazz. “Yes, I have.” He extended his own hand, cover to the data port in his wrist unlocking and retracting. “Shall we, my dear?”

“Always happy to plug into you, sweetspark,” Jazz assured him. “Even if it is just for basic data sharing.”

“Later,” Prowl promised as the mutual connection was established, “we’ll share more.” He granted Jazz access to his systems so the musician could view Rewind’s file as well. “Focus now, love.”

Yeah, Jazz was gonna get a thrill out of hearing that last word from Prowl for a long, long time. Still, Jazz knew how to put other things aside and did so now, shutting his optics off so he only saw the file’s contents. His audials he left on since it was just him and Prowl and they’d both be silent. Ambient noise was easy enough to disregard.

~~A flash of a typical morning. Waking from recharge within his host, breakfast with Blaster and his siblings. Checking his comm messages. Being assigned by Blaster to fulfill a request for an experiment to be recorded and archived at the Periapt School of the Arcane, Altihex University.

Jazz had never heard of it, despite attending the university in question, and told Prowl so.

‘It closed perhaps sixteen thousand meta-cycles ago. Mecha with magical talent were no longer being sparked so there were no more students.’ Prowl told him. ‘But that later. Now, watch.’

~~Arriving at the appointment to record the experiment at the Periapt School. Meeting the participants, Brainstorm and Shockwave, and another outside observer, Perceptor. Perceptor did not believe in magic, apparently, and only wanted to observe the two wizards to determine how to interpret what they did through the lens of science. Brainstorm disagreed with this idea and wanted to prove magic to the scientist. Shockwave seemed indifferent, claiming it was illogical to debate science versus magic when the two were tantamount. Shockwave said it was equally unreasonable to discuss the results of the experiment until it was complete and the results available to examine.

They watched Rewind’s recording of the experiment, annotated with what memories he’d been able to recall. Jazz had a better understanding of what he was seeing now than he would have even a deca-cycle ago, but it was still a little opaque. Prowl explained that it was a small experiment in precognition, attempting to manipulate pseudo-processors – non-sentient hardware that mimicked the processor of a sapient mech – to see through time.

‘Why,’ questioned Jazz, ‘do I not like the idea of the warlock-to-be messing around with time?’

‘Because you are sensible and possess hindsight.’ Prowl frowned. ‘I see nothing in this experiment that Shockwave would want to hide, particularly if there were already another outside observer.’

~~The experiment ended and didn’t seem to have worked. Brainstorm insisted that there had to be a way, through science, magic, or a combination of both, to see or even move through time. Shockwave theorized that the experiment failed because they were using a simulated processor and might gain better results using a live mech. Brainstorm and Perceptor both shot that idea down, claiming that mecha trials at this juncture would be spectacularly unethical. Mecha trials could not begin until synthetic trials either proved successful or provided a way to safely experiment on living mecha.

~~After the experiment was complete and Rewind’s archival recording stopped the little mech wandered around the labs, recording for curiosity’s sake.

Jazz had a feeling he knew where this was going.

~~One of the labs was closed, empty, but connected to another room. The connecting door didn’t quite fit the frame, and, in the darkness of the main lab, Rewind could make out a line of light running down one side. The mini-cassette’s natural curiosity seemed to take over, and he went to see what it was, peering in through the opening down the side.

Here, the recovered memories began to get pixelated, staticky, around the edges.

~~Inside, Rewind could, just barely, make out a small, live, mech hooked up to equipment, maybe medical. Their helm was open, their processor exposed and linked up to the same type of apparatus Rewind had seen attached to the simulated processor earlier.

The next few nano-kliks were too distorted for anything to be made out, then the file indicated a period of missing time, about two kliks. When it came back, it was to show a brief burst of a ramp-well Rewind was running down. Another fritzed section and now Rewind was in an area Jazz recognized as the alley/hallway they’d seen in the movie Prowl had pulled Rewind out of. This time it was from Rewind’s perspective, not Shockwave’s, of course. Just as before, Rewind ran toward the t-junction, paused to check down the alley intersecting with the one he was in.

~~Shockwave. Massive compared to Rewind, approaching fast. A glow coming from one of Shockwave’s hands.

~~Pixelation.

~~Static.

~~Rewind, present day, advising that he’d been able to determine Shockwave was now in Crystal City. He hadn’t been able to find any information on Shockwave’s current magical activities. Shockwave currently presented himself as a scientist and had even helped develop a new structural material for Crystal City, giving the buildings their unique look. He provided an address and ended with wishing them luck.

The file ended. Jazz withdrew from Prowl’s systems, reeling his jacks back in.

 “I think I must travel to Crystal City,” Prowl said slowly, his powerful systems allowing him to recover from the deep data-dive faster than Jazz’s did. “Whatever Shockwave did in the past cannot be undone – though I could perhaps mitigate some of the effects as I find them, as I did with the mirror.  I want to look into his current activities. It would be best to do that in his place of residence.”

“And more dangerous,” Jazz pointed out. “You’re going alone?”

“Not if you will come with me. I can wait until your next break between terms to travel if you would.” When Jazz hesitated, Prowl reached out and tipped his chin up, gently, to look him in the visor. “What troubles you? Is it the cost?”

“Well, yeah,” Jazz admitted. “Crystal City ain’t cheap.”

“I’m happy to cover the expense.”

“Okay, but, well…” Jazz wasn’t sure how to put it. Fortunately, Prowl seemed to understand. Social cues might still escape him on occasion – or, more likely, be disregarded – but he read Jazz pretty well.

“The inequity of it bothers you,” Prowl guessed.

“Yeah,” Jazz sighed. “I know it doesn’t bother you, but – “ He shrugged. Prowl was older, wealthier, able to afford a house of his own. Jazz was a student who still relied on financial help from his mentor and couldn’t afford anything more than student dorms. Jazz had always been told the age of your lover shouldn’t matter, provided you were all adults, but he was pretty sure whoever said that had been thinking of a much smaller gap. Jazz had been online for nine meta-cycles: Prowl had never told Jazz how old he was, but Jazz had picked up enough clues to suggest his lover had been sparked either late in the Age of Origins or early in the Age of Wrath.

“It bothers you, that’s what’s important. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.” Prowl considered. “We have time to research travel and lodging. What if I – if we create a travel budget,” just the way Prowl said the words told Jazz the idea was foreign to him, “and come up with one acceptable to you?”

Jazz forgave him the slip because he knew Prowl wasn’t used to having to account for anyone else and it was clear the wizard was trying.

“Yeah,” Jazz said. “Sounds good, I like that. Lemme talk to Half-step,” Jazz’s mentor and fellow musician, “see if he knows someone who’s got a place we can borrow, or anywhere cheap to stay.” He cupped Prowl’s cheek and leaned in to kiss him. “Means a lot that you’re trying. Thanks, babe.”

***

Half-step knew a mech who’d met Jazz before, when he was younger, and was willing to let Jazz and Prowl stay in his place while he was away. From the images of the apartment Jazz saw, it was small for two mecha but not so small Jazz was going to complain, especially since it was free. Prowl had no opinion on it and had probably stayed in worse over his long and nomadic life as a monster-hunter. Half-step had also found Jazz work playing backup for a local band for two nights. Jazz looked them up on the DataNet and, frankly, did not expect great things to come of them. A paying gig was a paying gig, though, and Jazz really did want to make the trip costs as equal as possible.

Despite the real reason for the trip, Jazz found himself looking forward to it. Half-step was a good, attentive, mentor but he wasn’t exactly rich, and he’d never been able to take Jazz on more than a day-trip here and there. Jazz suspected that taking on a newbuild was more costly than Half-step had planned for, though Jazz had never felt any lack during his time living with his mentor.

For someone who’d never put a travel budget together before, Jazz thought Prowl did an excellent job. It was still not quite fifty/fifty, more like sixty-five/thirty-five, but Prowl insisted Jazz arranging their accommodations should count toward costs, just because of how much it saved them. Five nights in Crystal City did not come cheap if you had to rent a hotel room. The mech whose apartment they were borrowing was giving them limited use of his energon dispenser as well, saving them on fuel. Jazz’s share of the final projected costs was within a student’s budget, considering where they were going. There wouldn’t be any change left and Jazz would have to go light on extras for a bit, but it wouldn’t be hard. It’s not like he would go hungry.

Based on Prowl’s reaction on the transport – a relatively slow-moving but inexpensive inter-city train – Jazz didn’t think his lover had ever used public transit like this before. The wizard, well, prowled the whole passenger-accessible length of the train, checking out every coach and sleeper car, the dining car, and the front and back café areas. Jazz, following along, briefly got a sinking feeling when he saw Prowl rubbing his fingers together the way he checked for magic, but it turned out he’d only gotten something sticky on his fingers.

While Jazz appreciated not having to drive all the way to Crystal City, he was still glad to get off the train and onto his wheels. Proving he knew Jazz incredibly well – hardly surprising given how often he was in Jazz’s systems – Prowl made their very first stop a local racetrack.

‘You, my mech, are amazing,’ Jazz said approvingly.

Prowl’s response was a series of happy/content/pleased glyphs tagged with markers indicating he felt that way because Jazz did. Primus, Jazz loved his wizard.

Prowl wasn’t a bad racer himself. He nearly tied with Jazz a couple of times.

After racing the first night was occupied with dinner – to celebrate their arrival, their first vacation together, they ate out – and settling in. There was a window opposite the bed, and they polarized it so they could see out and no one could see in and curled up together to look out over the city. During the day, Crystal City glittered in the sunlight: at night, it was filled with lights. Streetlights, building lights, sculptures of light, building marquees, head-and-tailights of the mecha still driving through the streets. Jazz loved it.

“’S beautiful,” Jazz said softly. Prowl was sitting up against the headboard and Jazz was leaning contentedly against him, head on his chest, arm over his waist. “No matter what else happens while we’re here, I’m glad we had this.”

Prowl pressed a tender kiss to Jazz’s helm. “As am I, beloved.”

***

Even though they had Shockwave’s address, getting into it was another matter. It was a secure research facility on the outskirts of the city that doubled as his residence. (Apparently, even ancient warlock-scientists had to be chary with the rent in Crystal City.) Over breakfast, Prowl said that he wanted to case it first, see if he could get some idea of what kind of magic – if any – Shockwave might be working there. There was always the possibility the warlock had left magic behind, especially since magic was on the wane, and gone legit.

Prowl said the probability was low but not zero. He’d also wondered if Shockwave’s experiments could be responsible for the wane in magic because anything to do with altering time, space, or opening a rift to another plane required large amounts of it. They did know that Shockwave was interested in looking through time, possibly even travelling through it, as Brainstorm had mentioned. Prowl had allowed, too, that the wane in magic might be connected to the slowly diminishing number of newsparks being produced by Vector Sigma or the (rumoured) lessening of available energon. Prowl’s specialty was hunting preternatural threats, not studying the whys and wherefores of how magic worked. Prowl termed that study ‘thaumaphysics’ and Jazz was about sixty percent sure he’d made the word up on the spot.

“Got anyone you can ask about that?” Jazz asked. While Jazz hadn’t met any – according to Prowl, wizards got along better when not sharing territory – Prowl did have colleagues he communicated with regularly.

“A few. One here, Magister Sigil, and another in Iacon who is…rather lax in his response times,” Prowl replied. “But then, he is also the oldest of us and has many responsibilities beyond that of the average mech or wizard.” Perhaps realizing he was lapsing into the realm of not explaining things, he added, “I’ll share more of that with you later, dearest. After Shockwave.”

“Does Shockwave not know who the guy is?” Jazz wondered. Didn’t make sense that he wouldn’t, though.

“He does,” Prowl told him, “but names can have power, and the mech I’m thinking of is very powerful indeed. It may be wise not to call attention to it while we’re attempting to go unnoticed.”

Well, that was concerning. “What about you?”

“I doubt the warlock is aware I still function, if he even remembers me.” Prowl shrugged. “We only met once, and it was a very long time ago.

“Before we begin our research, however, my love, shall we tour the city?” Prowl smiled warmly at Jazz across the little table. “I still want a holiday with you, even if it is a working one. I remember Crystal City having a thriving entertainment district you’ll adore.”

Prowl was dead-on about that one. Jazz never wanted to leave! There were theatres, music and concert halls, shops for every kind of performing art, and buskers on every single street corner. He almost lost track of time, exploring everything he possibly could, adding to the mental list of instruments and music he wanted to buy once he had, y’know, an income. (The romance of being a starving arts student wore off really, really, slagging fast.) Jazz only tore himself away to get to rehearsal with the band whose electro-bass player he was subbing for while he and Prowl were there.

Prowl went off to do wizard-things, probably recon for the whole Shockwave deal. Whatever he did, he was in the seat he’d been comped when the stage lights came up and the show started.

The wizard always loved to hear Jazz play, always watched intently. Jazz knew he should scan the audience for reactions, to make contact, read the crowd. It was hard to look away from Prowl, though, with the other mech focussed that tightly on him.

“Primus, someone’s got his optics on you, doesn’t he?” the lead singer asked, backstage during the intermission. “Mech hasn’t looked away from you once. You okay with him? He’s not a stalker or anything?”

Jazz chuckled. “Nah, that’s m’sweetspark. Got a thing for hearing me play. He’s just a bit on the intense side, is all.”

After the show, they hung around with the band at a local after-hours hangout for a bit. Well, Jazz hung out; Prowl hung in the background trying not to unnerve people, with varying levels of success. By the time they got back to the apartment, even the lights of Crystal City were beginning to dim as the last of the city’s waking inhabitants found a place to sleep, whether their own or someone else’s. After kissing Prowl goodnight, Jazz practically fell into their borrowed bed. Jazz was ‘charging deeply before the outer layers of his armour had even shed the night’s chill.

The next day they woke late, took their energon down to the little terrace at the back of the apartment building and breakfasted in the crystal garden there.

“You’re enjoying yourself,” Prowl observed, smiling. He was sitting on a bench next to Jazz, turned sideways so he could face his lover. “As am I. I was able to avail myself of one of the libraries here, one of the few remaining public libraries with an arcane section. Granted, it is in the fiction wing, but one can only ask so much these days.”

“Find anything out?” Jazz asked, polarizing his visor to block out some of the sunlight. (He might’ve overdone it a little on letting people buy him drinks last night, plus his systems were still off because of travel.)

Prowl nodded. “Yes. The warlock is not a regular patron of the library – I expect he has copies of everything they have – but one of the other visitors there knew of him. Her opinion was unfavourable, but I was able to confirm that his claims of performing pure science are untrue. The visitor described seeing a glow coming from the laboratory complex’s upper windows that can only be magical in nature.”

“You can trust this mech?” Jazz didn’t think Prowl was the type to be overly trusting of strangers, but it never hurt to ask.

“Oh yes.” Prowl sipped his energon, focused into the distance briefly, probably on some interesting refraction from one of the crystal flowers or something. “She is sworn to the Order of Veritax. They can only ever tell the truth.”

“Another wizard?” Jazz would be surprised if this Order of Veritax mech were, after what Prowl had said about wizards and territory. Shockwave sounded like he’d be the insular type, though, so maybe he didn’t pay a lot of attention to what went on outside his walls.

“No, although they have been known to serve wizards as assistants, or liaisons with the outside world.” Prowl looked at Jazz. “Similar to what you do – though I certainly don’t think of you as a servant, my dear.”

“I don’t think you’re that bad at liaising with the outside world, love,” Jazz told him. “Not as much as you think you are. Not that I mind helping you out, though.”

Prowl looked pleased. “Thank you, Jazz.

“Tomorrow, once your performance commitments have been fulfilled,” Prowl continued, “I want you to drive past the laboratory complex to determine what you can sense.”

“And share the memory with you later?” Jazz guessed, reaching over to run teasing fingers up Prowl’s arm, earning him one of Prowl’s affectionate little smiles as a ‘yes.’

Prowl had incredibly powerful processors, far more so than Jazz’s. The wizard could process a fantastic amount of data, more than anyone Jazz had ever known or heard of. Being connected to them was, when the connection ran deep enough, intense in all the very best ways. Jazz’s systems weren’t exceptional in the way Prowl’s were, but Jazz interpreted sensory input in a slightly but significantly different way. Like any mech, Jazz took in and recorded more sensory input than he actively processed. He usually didn’t do anything with the extra data, though he could if he wanted to devote the time and processing power. The information was just saved. But, when Prowl ran packets of sensory information from Jazz, processing, interpreting, and analyzing the extra data was much, much easier. When Prowl shared it back, the world burst into whole new levels of light, sound, texture and more.

Prowl had cautioned that interfacing with him could be overwhelming. It was, it totally was, and it was wonderful, and Jazz loved every pico-klik of it.

Once he’d seen his own sensory information run back at maximum resolution, running effortlessly under Prowl’s power Jazz finally understood why Prowl drew links between magic and music. The connection between the two wasn’t ability, it was perception. They overlapped in specific harmonies, and Jazz was sensitive to them in ways he probably wouldn’t have been had he not been sparked a musician.

Jazz really needed to thank Half-step for phrasing his request to Vector Sigma for the spark that became Jazz the way he had. First, though, Jazz would have figure out how to explain the whole ‘my lover is a wizard’ thing in a way that wouldn’t make Half-step ask if he were high.

Then again, Half-step knew some off-spec things for a piano player. Lockpicking, for instance. It might not be that much of a surprise. You didn’t need to be a musician to pick up that there was something (intriguing, magnetic, amazing) different about Prowl either.

***

They’d done stuff for Jazz their first full day there, so Jazz insisted on making the second day about Prowl. Prowl liked to visit bookstores, museums, galleries, and antique shops – not Jazz’s usual fare, but hey it made Prowler happy.

Prowl didn’t so much seem to have an interest in shopping in the antique shops as reminiscing in them. The employees – sorry, advisors, rich mecha were slagging weird – didn’t seem to mind. They were probably used to their customers – sorry, habitués, see previous observation – being a little to a lot eccentric. Jazz was sure the ‘advisors’ thought he was Prowl’s kept mech, and Jazz entertained himself by playing that up a bit. He didn’t want to be kept in real life but playing at it was fun.

‘Having fun?’ Prowl asked, amused, notably not telling Jazz to stop.

‘Actually yeah.’

After that, Prowl addressed him out loud with terms like ‘pet’ until Jazz couldn’t keep a straight face. Eventually, he got the snickers walking into the high-end shops even after Prowl stopped to let him calm down, and they had to abandon the pricier shopping districts. From there they went to the outer circles of the city, which were less high-end and more working class. No matter how rich you were, someone had to build and maintain things for you, after all.

Prowl brought them to an open-air market, a lot less rigidly structured than the places they’d been in the city center. Even though it was the middle of the workday the market was well attended – probably, Jazz thought, by the mecha who worked later or earlier shifts to keep the city bright and entertaining. Likely the Towerlings didn’t ever set foot here unless they were, as they would put it, ‘slumming.’

Here, Prowl was doing less browsing and more looking for something. They went through a twisty, odd, little back section of the market, into a building that looked like it’d been standing there since Prowl was sparked. Jazz didn’t think he’d have been able to find it without Prowl.

‘Magic shop?’ Jazz asked as he followed Prowl in.

‘Magic supplies and curios, yes.’

Jazz wondered if they sold stuffed alloygators here since they seemed to be an essential part of a wizard’s workshop. Prowl had to have gotten his someplace, and he wasn’t into hunting. Jazz supposed he could also have inherited it from his master. Prowl had mistaken Jazz for an apprentice when they’d first met so he must have been one himself once.

Based on the outside of the building Jazz had expected the inside of the shop to be slightly mismatched and battered, like a larger version of Prowl’s workshop, dimly lit, and staffed by a single ancient mech. It really looked like a clinic, with bright white walls and stainless-steel shelving. Everything was neatly labelled and organized on shelves, the lights were bright, and the mech standing behind the counter had a contemporary frame. The attendant was broadcasting her ID: Quickshadow, she, third-level apprentice. She and Prowl appeared to know each other.

“Wizard Prowl, welcome,” she said, with a respectful dip of her head. “It’s good to see you patronize our establishment again.”

“Hello again, Apprentice Quickshadow,” Prowl said, crossing the room to the counter. “Is Magister Sigil available?”

“The Magister is travelling at present,” Quickshadow told him. “I’m unsure of when he’ll return. Such trips can take many unexpected turns, as you know.”

Prowl sent Jazz a flicker of ‘amused/affectionate’ glyphs, probably thinking of the unexpected turn his wight-hunt had taken. “Yes. Perhaps you can help me. You are familiar with any magical experiments being done in or near the city, I imagine?”

Quickshadow looked at Jazz critically. “Who’s this?”

“Jazz is with me.” ‘With’ carried undertones indicating their relationship was more than friendly. “He’s safe and informed.”

“Very well,” Quickshadow conceded. “Yes, I know of the experiments to which you refer. They’re minor things, nothing to be concerned with.”

Even to Jazz’s less experienced audial, she sounded rushed when she spoke, as if she wanted to avoid the subject. Prowl clearly wasn’t fooled.

“You’re certain?” Prowl asked, regarding her levelly. “Perhaps we’re thinking of different experiments. I’m inquiring about any magical experiments being performed in Shockwave’s labs.”

“The labs are well known to be a scientific facility,” she said. “Not a magical one.”

“Better,” Prowl said mildly, “that was almost an answer. I know what they’re meant to be, Apprentice, you will tell me what they are.”

“I – I’m not sure. I – “

Jazz ha a sudden flash of insight. “Hey, Quickshadow? This Magister Sigil mech – what did Shockwave say he’d do to him if you talked?”

Quickshadow’s optics widened just a fraction before she caught herself. “I can’t say. I’m sorry.”

‘Very good, love,’ Prowl’s glyphs were marked with approval and affection. ‘Perceptive.’

‘’S why you love me.’ Affectionate teasing.

‘One of many reasons.’ Fondness.

Out loud, Prowl spoke to Quickshadow again. “Apprentice, give me your hand.” When she hesitated, he added a little more gently, “I’m only going to verify the presence of the geas and examine its structure, I won’t attempt to dispel it.”

Quickshadow hesitantly put her hand on Prowl’s. He let it rest there, not doing anything Jazz could see beyond being focussed.

‘A geas is a way of forcing someone to do something – or, as I believe to be the case here, not reveal something,’ Prowl explained to Jazz, getting ever better at remembering he often had to tell Jazz what was going on. ‘But I should be able to see something of what isn’t to be said.’

‘Stuff like not telling us Shockwave’s got this Magister Sigil mech. Got it. Not going to try and undo it?’

‘No. Having one of his spells undone may alert Shockwave. I don’t want to give my presence away until its necessary. The geas won’t cause her any harm, provided she doesn’t try to move against it,’ Prowl assured him. ‘This is also not my style of magic. It’s better to be removed by the caster or by Magister Sigil if we’re able to return him.’

‘Doesn’t seem like Shockers’d remove it just ‘cause we ask nice. What happens if we can’t return Magister Sigil?’

‘If we return and Magister Sigil does not, I’ll endeavour to remove it myself. If we do not return then the geas will remain active until the warlock deactivates or she can find another wizard to remove it.’ Prowl finished whatever it was he was doing with Quickshadow’s hand and let her go. ‘I should reassure her, correct?’

‘Yup, you got it.’ Jazz let Prowl know he was proud of the wizard for remembering.

“I have enough now, Quickshadow,” Prowl said to her. “I’ll do what I can for Magister Sigil.”

“Thank you, Wizard Prowl.” Quickshadow clasped her hands behind her back. “I’m sure the Magister will be grateful when he returns from his journey. In the meantime, is there anything in the shop you would like to see?”

“Yes,” Prowl replied, the talk about Magister Sigil apparently over for now. “I require more ammunition. One box will do.”

“Of course,” Quickshadow dipped her head in acknowledgement and moved to open one of the cabinets behind the counter. “Are your requirements still the same as they were in your previous purchase?”

“The calibre remains the same, but I need something that will disrupt and ground.”

“You’ll etch them yourself?” Quickshadow asked, looking back over her shoulder.

Prowl nodded. “Of course.”

Quicksilver selected a box from one of the cabinet shelves, locked the cabinet back up and came back to the counter. “These should be sufficient. Gold-copper alloy jacketed in sterling silver. Fifty shanix, please.”

Seemed pricey to Jazz, but Prowl didn’t say anything, so neither did he. It wasn’t like Jazz knew anything about firearms or ammunition anyway. He could recognize different kinds of firearms, and that was about it. Prowl’s rifle probably didn’t follow the standard rules anyway.

They took a slower route back to the apartment so Jazz could give himself a polish before his gig that evening, winding through exquisite parks that were perfectly planned and maintained. Jazz wished he could race on the driving paths – without getting himself Enforcer attention and a fine bigger than what he earned in two stellar cycles if the signs posted about were right.

While Jazz got ready Prowl sat down at the table with his new ammunition and what Jazz guessed was an etching kit and began to painstakingly carve little glyphs on the cartridges. (Jazz had called them bullets and been corrected: the cartridge contained the bullet, they weren’t the same thing.)

“Gonna head out now, love,” Jazz announced, leaning down for a quick kiss. “Coming to the show tonight? Cause you don’t need to if you need the time for,” he nodded at the cartridges, “this. You know I’ll understand.”

Prowl shook his head. “No need, I’ll still have some time tomorrow. I enjoy watching you perform.”

“’Kay, babe. See you at the show.”

The show that night went pretty much the same as the last one, just a little bit easier for Jazz to follow the other musicians now that he was familiar with their styles. They didn’t stay out as late that night. They couldn’t really afford to, not and remain within the agreed-on holiday budget. It gave them time for a slow, gentle, ‘face before they slept, so Jazz wasn’t about to complain.

“Good day,” Jazz mumbled as his optics shut off. “Best vacation ever.”

The sound of agreement Prowl made as he snuggled close was the last thing Jazz remembered before morning.

***

The first day of the actual job, which had grown to include an attempt to rescue Magister Sigil, dawned bright and clear. It was a perfect day to go driving, which worked out well for Jazz. Prowl wanted him to view Shockwave’s lab from as many angles as possible, and since Jazz didn’t want to be too obvious, that meant multiple passes, on different roads, separated by time. So he was going to spend the entire day on his wheels, pretty much.

It only took one pass for Jazz to determine that he Did Not Like the place. He couldn’t say exactly why, so he turned up the gain on all his sensors as much as he could so Prowl would have as much info as possible to work with. The lab looked modern and shiny, like the rest of the city. It didn’t look like anything anyone should take exception to, but it was.

At least Crystal City had immaculately kept roads, just as good as the racetrack Jazz and Prowl had visited when they arrived. Jazz maybe indulged in a couple extra spins around the place, freaky or not, just to stay on them. But he had a job to do, and right now that job was to get this info to Prowl.

When Jazz got back to the apartment Prowl was kneeling in a patch of sun, meditating. Jazz was irresistibly reminded of a cybercat one of Half-step’s friends owned. Prowl even gave him the same look when he came in, as if considering whether or not he should get up or wait for Jazz to go to him.

Jazz went over and nudged Prowl till there was space in the sun-patch for him, too.

“How was it?” Prowl asked.

“Weird,” Jazz replied. “Looks totally normal but I don’t like it. Got lots of sensory data for you, though, all packaged up and ready, just – no offence, love, but I’m not sure I wanna run this one with you.”

“That’s fine.” Prowl held out his arm, so Jazz could jack in and transfer the packet. “If you don’t like the lab using your normal amount of sensory input seeing the full spectra will be worse.”

“Okay, thanks,” Jazz said, relieved, and gave Prowl the data. “I’m gonna go practice while you look that over, alright?”

“Of course, dearest.”

Jazz practiced for a solid cycle, way more time than Prowl’d need to analyze Jazz’s data. Frowning, Jazz rounded the screen that separated the sleeping area from the rest of the apartment to check on his lover. Prowl was back at the table, etching more symbols onto his rifle cartridges. He looked up when Jazz approached.

“You were right not to view the data,” the wizard said, simply. He reached out a hand and Jazz took it, sensing Prowl needed the comfort of touch just then. “It would have disturbed you.”

“You look like it disturbed you,” Jazz commented. He grabbed one of the other chairs and sat down next to Prowl, thigh to thigh, joined hands resting on his knee. “Can you tell me about it?”

Prowl hesitated, then leaned into Jazz, resting his head on the younger mech’s shoulder. “Not now. Not yet.”

“Okay, babe,” Jazz said, freeing his hand so he could put that arm around Prowl’s shoulders. “Whenever you’re ready. I’ll be here.”

***

Whatever Prowl had seen, it moved up their projected timetable. On the upside, that meant they might have more time for actual vacation once they were down. On the downside…yeah. Jazz didn’t think he really wanted to imagine what the downsides to getting caught by a warlock were. Might well not be something as simple as being deactivated.

Prowl had them go to the lab that night, instead of the next. He said they weren’t quite as prepared as he wanted to be but something was building, and he didn’t want to wait. He still wouldn’t tell Jazz what he’d seen and that worried Jazz. Prowl had to have seen some slag in his time, so for him to react like this had to be pretty bad.

“You shouldn’t come with me,” Prowl said quietly. His head was down so he couldn’t meet Jazz’s visor and his shoulders were tense, doors flattened forward and held close to his body. He’d taken his rifle apart, cleaned it, and reassembled it while they waited for nightfall. Now he was loading it with the cartridges he’d finished etching earlier.

“Because you don’t want me to or because you don’t need me?” Jazz, leaning against the table, kept going before Prowl could answer. “’Cause I can see you’re scared and if there’s scrap there that scares you it ain’t something I want you to face alone.”

Now Prowl looked up, face tense. “Jazz. This isn’t like the wight or the poltergeist. It’s far more dangerous. I cannot promise you that, if it comes to a fight, I’ll be able to defeat Shockwave. If I can’t, you – I-I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“And I don’t want to have to wonder what happened if you don’t come back,” Jazz pointed out, gently. “Besides, if you don’t, I’m just gonna have to go in after you.”

“You can’t fight,” Prowl countered. “So far as I know you don’t know how to use a weapon. You’re sensitive to magic but can neither truly perceive nor use it. You’d be – “

“A liability?”

“In danger. Jazz…”

“Sigil,” Jazz interrupted firmly.

Prowl’s optics flickered briefly in surprise. “What about Sigil?”

“Why’d Shockwave take him?”

“To contain a possible threat,” Prowl replied. “Sigil is very powerful, and the warlock wouldn’t risk having a wizard who could oppose him so near. Closing the shop entirely would have drawn too much interest, hence leaving Quickshadow free but under a geas.”

Jazz nodded. “Because wizards like you might come calling and wonder what’d happen. Okay. Now. Whatever the warlock’s up to out there’s got you freaked out bad.” He held up a hand. “I’m not gonna ask you what it was, I know you don’t want to talk about it yet. Whatever it is, d’you think Shocker’s gonna stop at Crystal City? D’you think he’s going to leave anyone he thinks might know something alone?”

“You’re attempting to convince me you will be in danger if the result is anything but a successful outcome,” Prowl said bluntly. He didn’t look happy about it, but gave and admitted, “you are most probably correct.”

“Thought so,” Jazz said, satisfied. “Besides that, could you use Sigil’s help? If he’s in a state to give it, I mean?”

“I could,” Prowl said slowly. “Yes…and most magical bindings, if they’re being used, can be broken by a non-wizard using the correct tools and knowledge. It’s usually as simple as damaging the glyphs of the spell. You suggest that you can retrieve Sigil while I, if necessary, provide a diversion for the warlock.”

Jazz nodded. “Yeah. I’m not letting you go in there alone, might as well be useful.”

“I see.” Prowl sighed and reached for his etcher, still sitting on the table, moving the rifle to one side. “I suppose I cannot stop you following me, but I can offer you some protection. Lie down on the floor and offline your pain receptors in the following areas.”

Jazz hadn’t ever planned, or thought about, getting tattoos or etchings on his armour. They’d never been his thing. But, if this worked out and he changed his mind about them, he could always get them filled in. It wasn’t anything so extreme he couldn’t let Prowl do it if it meant he could go with the wizard.

“Besides,” Jazz said, watching Prowl carefully etch delicate-looking glyphs into the armour on his right arm. “I can get you past the locks, hack the security feeds. Been a while but a friend of Half-step’s showed me how.”

“You showed an aptitude for this?”

“Yup.” For the sake of honesty, Jazz added, “probably better when I’m sober, though.”

“Very well. The less we have to use magic the longer we may avoid Shockwave’s notice. Do not,” Prowl ordered, “risk yourself in those systems. I know what the warlock’s power is in terms of magic. His science and technology are lesser-known areas for me.”

“Hey, I don’t want me to get deactivated any more than you do. We’ll get us out of there. Maybe not in the greatest of shape,” Jazz allowed, “but we’ll get out. I’ve got a feeling.”

“Well,” Prowl sat back on his heels and brushed curls of metal from Jazz’s arm into a tiny container from his subspace. “If you’re to develop psychic abilities, I suppose now is the time.”

“Sarcasm’s a weird look on you, babe.”

“What sarcasm?”

***

Shockwave’s lab was even creepier at night, to Jazz’s total lack of surprise. Prowl brought them in close to some perimeter only the wizard could see, pacing along it until he found what he was looking for. Subspacing a bottle of something, he poured a stream of powder into his palm and tossed it into the air in front of them, revealing a twisting pattern of lines and shapes.

‘What was that stuff you used?’

‘Powdered ruby. Carefully now, follow me and move as I do. The warlock left himself an exit, we’re using it for entry, but it requires precision.’

Jazz obeyed, putting his feet exactly where Prowl had, twisting and ducking as the wizard did, irresistibly reminded of dance classes. Except, messing up here meant something a lot worse than not landing a spot in the chorus. They made it through, and across a bare-seeming patch of ground, to a section of wall that looked like every other section of wall. Jazz kept putting his feet where Prowl had, sure they were through the maze, or whatever it was, but wanting to be cautious. Prowl ran his fingers down a seam between wall panels, beautiful crystal like everything else, and opened a tiny panel. He stepped aside.

‘Your turn. Be careful. If it’s too risky for you, we will find another way.’

Jazz nodded and connected to the door’s systems. It was protected, but he got through, opening the door and forcing the cameras in the escape tunnel to loop the last klik of footage. Shockwave was probably counting on his magic fence-maze and the door being invisibly set in the wall for a lot of the security here. Probably didn’t want an emergency exit to be too complicated either.

‘You did well,’ Prowl complimented him when the door opened, and they slipped through. Jazz locked it behind them.

‘Thanks. Just a matter of finding the rhythm. The next ones won’t be so easy, though.’

The escape hallway went up a couple of stories and was dotted with doors and other hallways branching off of it. Jazz guessed that was so Shockwave could get out from almost anywhere in the lab. If the mech hadn’t been a warlock with a possible bent for occult science it would have been paranoid.

‘The worst effects were to the south,’ Prowl told Jazz. ‘I expect that is where Sigil is being held – and where the experiments and any major workings are performed. If we find a terminal can you locate a floor plan to give us more information?’

‘Can try. The terminal will be more secure than door locks, probably. Riskier.’

‘Necessary.’

They moved deeper into the facility, checking side hallways for a room with a terminal. Most of what they saw was weird labs, filled with experiments Jazz didn’t understand just by looking at them. They weren’t on living mecha though, for which he was grateful, especially after those glimpses from Rewind’s file. One hallway led to a room whose interior Jazz didn’t see because Prowl stepped back abruptly from the open doorway and pushed him away before he got a look.

Yeah, even if there were a terminal in there, Jazz didn’t think he’d want to use it.

Finally, they found what they were looking for. Jazz ignored the jars filled with he-didn’t-want-to-know in liquid and connected to the terminal. Carefully. He manipulated the firewalls, dodged other forms of security, and finally pulled up the floor plan he wanted. Sadly, it didn’t have a section conveniently marked ‘Evil Lair’ or ‘Magister Storage.’ There were five rooms marked as clean rooms that were connected to the regular vent systems with no sign of filters. Jazz knew clean rooms were supposed to be on their own system or have filtering systems or use negative pressure or something. Unless something had changed, and the floor plan hadn’t been appropriately updated, that was not right making it an excellent place to start.

‘Think I found it. South, like you said. Found us a path.’ He pinged it to Prowl in case they got separated. ‘We’re in past the security perimeter – some of the individual rooms might have some, and there are cameras, but no guards. Probably doesn’t want to risk anyone talking or having to explain disappearances. And I found the power usage records too. Looks like statistically, the lowest power use takes place starting around midnight. That might be when the warlock’s ‘charging. You want to hold up somewhere and wait or stick to the plan?’

Prowl was silent, deliberating. ‘We could wait, but there is no guarantee that downtime will occur tonight at the average time, nor that that is when Shockwave is sleeping. Also, the longer I stay, the more likely he is to sense my presence, whether I am actively using magic or not.’

Jazz nodded. ‘Forward it is, then. I’ll loop a klik of footage through it like I did in the escape tunnel but we should be quick.’

‘You’ve done well.’

They weren’t using names, or anything but the most basic glyphs without markers in their transmissions, for security reasons. Prowl still brushed their hands together to let Jazz know he was pleased.

Jazz had constructed the path to keep them inside the emergency system, already hacked and probably as secure as they were going to get, as long as possible. He’d set camera footage to loop starting at the time he’d calculated they’d reach the section letting them into the facility proper. Jazz was reasonably confident his hacks wouldn’t be noticed but no sense allowing the changes run before they had to.

‘How long do we have to search?’ Prowl wanted to know.

‘The loop’ll last for a cycle before I have to connect and extend it. Every time I enter the system increases the risk of being caught though. I want to keep it to a minimum.’ That was provided Jazz had been able to locate and affect all the security measures.

He’d been dead on about one thing, though: the clean rooms weren’t clean rooms. They were cells. They locked from the outside only. Cabinets and a sink ran down one wall, and there were power outlets clearly designed for machinery that drew more power than the average appliance. The walls, floor, and ceiling were white. They were utterly, utterly, clean and yet Jazz was sure there was something in the air. Without thinking about it, he rubbed his fingers together the way Prowl did for a magical residue check.

‘There were wizards here.’ Prowl caught Jazz’s arm and drew him away. ‘Wizards who died here.’

‘This is why you didn’t want to show me – ‘

‘Yes. One of the reasons.’

Jazz looked down at his fingers, forced them to straighten out. ‘Gotta stop it. Tonight.’

Prowl made no reply – one wasn’t really needed – and they kept going, looking for the next most likely candidate for Magister Sigil’s (and hopefully only Magister Sigil’s) location. The rooms they checked got more and more disturbing, covered in arcane symbols or filled with equipment Jazz didn’t recognize but knew wasn’t right. A lot of it looked like it had started as standard medical tech before it had been changed. Before it had been…made wrong.

‘What is this stuff?’ he asked Prowl, who was examining some of the equipment as closely as he could without touching it. ‘What happened to it?’

‘It is a blend of science and magic,’ Prowl told him. ‘In itself, not abnormal. It would be impossible for Cybertronian magic-users to truly separate the two. But these…’ Prowl stood, drawing away from the equipment. ‘These have been twisted from their true purpose. Machines meant for healing turned to torture.’

Yeah, not making Jazz feel any better about the amount of time they were spending here. ‘Been used recently?’

‘I don’t believe so. I am not particularly keen on performing a more in-depth examination with the location of their maker currently unknown.’

‘Better to melt them down.’ Jazz had a bad, bad feeling that some of these machines were responsible for the dead wizards Prowl had mentioned earlier.

‘Quite.’

They were almost to the point Jazz was going to have to find another terminal and reset the cameras when they saw the door. It was very plain, utterly ordinary, and nowhere on the floor plans Jazz had found.

‘Well, that’s so normal it’s sinister,’ Jazz said, after a beat of staring at it. ‘That the thing we’re looking for?’

‘Almost certainly.’ Prowl stepped up, ran a hand up along the corner where door met frame. ‘There is a magical seal on this in addition to a conventional electronic lock. The probability the warlock will be alerted when the seal is broken is very high.’

‘Weren’t going to get out of this without alerting him,’ Jazz pointed out. ‘Want me to hack the lock first?’

‘Please.’

The unassuming door led into an unassuming but short corridor that terminated in an unassuming and unlit stairwell leading down. Because of course, Jazz thought resignedly, they were going to have to go into the basement.

Prowl ‘spaced his rifle and moved ahead of Jazz, but that didn’t make Jazz feel better. Precisely the opposite: it meant Prowl would take the brunt of any danger. Jazz wanted his wizard safe, whole, and enjoying the rest of their vacation with him. Preferably while this whole building melted in the background.

Prowl crouched down, briefly balancing his rifle across his knees, and took out the powdered ruby again, scattering it down the stairwell. The stream of particles flowed down the stairs in a way that looked unnatural to Jazz and illuminated a series of laser-like beams that probably served as tripwires.

‘He’s relying too much on any intruders not being wizards,’ Prowl observed. ‘Follow me, as we did through the maze.’

They reached the basement landing without incident and Jazz hacked the second lock. ‘No cameras on this level.’

‘He wants no part of what occurs here to be recorded.’

‘Great, that ain’t ominous. Any sense of Sigil?’ Jazz was getting that feeling again, like residue hung in the air, that told him there was one hell of a lot of magic saturating the place.

Prowl shook his head, staring down the corridor ahead of him. ‘No, the amount of magic that permeates this level is too overwhelming. I can get no sense of anything individual.’

‘No signal-to-noise, just noise. Got it. You gonna be okay?’

Prowl didn’t answer Jazz’s question, just sent back, ‘let’s go.’

This time, Prowl didn’t bother to search individual rooms. He headed straight down the hallway, looking for the place the magic was centred, Jazz guessed. Jazz wasn’t going to bug Prowl for explanations right now, though. He wasn’t going to do anything that slowed down them getting the hell out of here, preferably with Magister Sigil and without an angry warlock tailgating them.

The door Prowl had Jazz open for them led into the darkened observation balcony of an operating theatre – or what had been an operating theatre. The walls were covered with metallic panels carved with Wizard’s Alphabet glyphs that Jazz knew from learning it were in combinations that should not be used. A silver mirror, tarnished from the centre out, stood against one wall. Jazz thought some of the equipment around it looked like the same stuff that’d gotten Rewind locked in a movie. Precognition and magic twisted to its opposite purpose, then. Jazz was just as happy not to be able to see all of the room.

Apart from a single bright spotlight shining down on the centre, the room was dimly lit. Under the spotlight, a mech was restrained on a bed like the ones they’d seen in the cells upstairs. Their helm was open and their spark exposed, every detail starkly picked out under the harsh white light.

‘Magister Sigil.’ Prowl’s glyphs were marked with undertones of anger and horror. A large, purple, one-opticked mech that could only be Shockwave stood over Sigil. With one hand the warlock picked a tool up from a nearby tray and with the other pushed something in Sigil’s chest cavity aside.

Static swept across Jazz’s vision for a dizzying nano-klik as Sigil tried desperately to squirm away. The mech was conscious. Conscious and in pain.

Jazz found himself, for the first time he could remember, legitimately praying for help.

Prowl lay flat on the floor, sighted down his rifle, and fired, six times in rapid succession. Three shots went into Shockwave’s left arm, piercing the armour, making it erupt in sparks. Three peppered the warlock’s body as he jerked and stumbled backward in reaction with a feedback-filled howl of pain. Prowl fired once more, barely missing Shockwave’s optic.

‘Get Sigil,’ Prowl ordered Jazz, even as he got to his feet to run to the edge of the balcony and jump over.

Jazz scrambled to follow, not wanting to waste Prowl’s distraction and draw Shockwave’s attention, knowing they stood a better chance if Sigil were free. If Sigil were in any condition to help. Jazz had no idea: he didn’t know anything about medicine, or how to fight, or even to really be sure he’d covered his tracks in Shockwave’s systems…Slag it all, if they got out of this there was so much he had to learn!

Jazz ran over to the twisted hospital bed and dropped into a crouch to keep a low profile while he shut down the system. Being unfamiliar the system in question, he ignored the usual procedures that would shut down in a specific pattern customized for each patient and went straight for the emergency power-down sequence. That should, should if the systems hadn’t been fragged with too badly, close up Sigil and turn off whatever else it was doing to him.

While he worked, freaky sensations that Jazz recognized, even without his sensor data amped, as magic zinged over his sensor net, accompanied by the occasional sound of hand-to-hand. He desperately wanted to look and make sure his lover wasn’t hurt, but he had a job to do. If he could get Sigil free, it would be the best way to help Prowl – if Sigil was in any condition to help. Jazz could hear the injured mech panting raspily, trying to cool his systems down. It sounded bad, and Jazz liked Sigil’s chances of being able to help less every nano-klik.

The system began to shut down as rapidly as was safe. The sequence couldn’t be stopped now, so Jazz felt safe in disconnecting. He hadn’t seen any kind of controls for the restraints, and a quick check confirmed they were manual, attached separately. They were more than adequate for holding a light framed mech like Sigil in place, especially with binding glyphs carved into them. Binding glyphs wouldn’t affect Jazz unless he was the one in the restraints, but even with the glyphs damaged to break the binding, he wouldn’t be able to pry the cuffs open.

Jazz took a chance on being seen and moved to check the tools on Shockwave’s tray. The tools included a cutting torch and Jazz grabbed it, deciding to never think about why it was there. Crouching and peering up over the tray, hopefully out of the warlock’s line of sight, Jazz waited till Shockwave’s back was to him before setting the torch to one of Sigil’s wrist restraints.

Primus, he hoped that crash he’d just heard behind him wasn’t Prowl. Jazz risked a glance and saw Prowl was still on his feet, but the mirror had fallen or been pushed, to the ground. He couldn’t quite see Shockwave, giving him the horrible feeling that the warlock was right behind him.

But no, there was a flash of purple at the corner of his vision; Shockwave was still up and on the move. Jazz turned back to his work, not wanting to accidentally make optic contact with Prowl and distract his lover.

If Jazz’s audials hadn’t been so finely tuned to sound as they were he’d never have heard the whisper. As it was, he couldn’t make out the words and had to put his helm next to Sigil’s mouth to make anything out.

“…hands…”

“Free your hands?” Jazz whispered back. Sigil barely nodded. “Okay, mech, gotcha. Just – just hang in there, okay?”

It seemed like it took forever to get the cuffs ‘round Sigil’s wrists open, although his chronometer said otherwise. Once both hands were free he didn’t bother to check on Sigil, just moved down to the ankle cuffs.

Shockwave had gotten lazy, or overconfident, when it came to restraining Sigil’s ankles. They were pinned by a single piece, free of glyphs. Jazz brought to the torch to bear again. The sounds of the fight got closer and more physical. Jazz worried Shockwave had clued in to his presence and what he was doing. He worried about Prowl; Shockwave was taller and bulkier than the wizard, even if he was injured. He didn’t know how long it was going to take him to cut through or how long it’d take him to get Sigil out of here, or if he’d be able to do either of those things without getting the warlock’s notice.

Then, three things happened in rapid succession.

The torch gave out.

Magister Sigil sat up.

The zingy magic sensations intensified.

The magic swiftly built to a level of intensity that overwhelmed Jazz. His optics and audials filled with static, made his armour feel like he was being blasted by shards of glass. He doubled over, too stunned to do anything to protect himself. In the background, he heard a wail that rose into a purely electronic scream, nothing or words or vocal modulation in it. It sounded like nothing that should be made by a living Cybertronian.

Jazz’s self-protection routines kicked in, dialling down his sensitivity until he could bear what he was experiencing. It made the world come in weird, but he was able to straighten up and look around.

Sigil had slumped back down, but his optics were bright. Shockwave was gone. Prowl had an access panel in a wall open, suggesting another escape tunnel. Prowl had taken a few hits, and one of his doors was dented, but he was standing.

‘Jazz! I need you. Quickly!’

“Gonna be okay?” Jazz asked Sigil, getting to his feet. Sigil nodded faintly, and Jazz ran to Prowl, hacked the door controls. Without a word, Prowl bolted down the hallway that was revealed, and Jazz followed without a thought. Shockwave might be big, but Prowl and Jazz were fast. They just weren’t fast enough. Just as Jazz was sure, even with his dampened audials, that he could hear Shockwave running just ahead, an emergency barrier slammed up in front of them. Jazz grabbed Prowl instinctively, yanking backward, and they stumbled to a stop rather than running into the wall.

Prowl spat a curse and checked the nearest wall for an access panel. Jazz did the same on the opposite one, but no luck.

“Purely mechanical,” Jazz said, frustrated. “Must’ve had a lever or switch or something. Nothing to hack. Dammit!”

Prowl slammed his free hand on the barrier that now stood between him and Shockwave, furious. Jazz, who hadn’t thought Prowl had the kind of temper you could lose, was shocked into silence. Prowl’s hand curled into a fist, and he leaned forward, pressing his forehelm against it, shoulders slumping in defeat.

“Shockwave won’t let me get this close, not again,” Prowl said bitterly, “and he’ll be well away from Crystal City by the time we’re able to exit the facility.”

Jazz put a comforting hand on his lover’s arm. “I’m so sorry, Prowl. Sigil’s alive, though, so at least we managed that, right?”

Prowl straightened up to look at his lover, laid his hand over Jazz’s. “Yes, we did – and saving a life is no small thing.”

“Got any idea what was going on back there?” Jazz asked. “I mean, my systems were buzzing with the magic in there, mech. It had to have been pretty serious.”

“It was. Shockwave was attempting to – succeeding in, I believe, transferring magical ability from Magister Sigil to himself. Attempting to increase his own innate ability,” Prowl explained. “I believe the same experiment killed the other wizards whose deactivations I sensed here.”

Jazz frowned. “But something went wrong this time, didn’t it? I heard Shockwave scream.”

“I’ll need to confirm with the magister, but I’m fairly certain Sigil reversed the spell.” Prowl continued thoughtfully, “because he’s stronger than Shockwave, more skilled, more experienced, he tore Shockwave’s capacity for magic from him, in its entirety.” Prowl looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I admit to feeling some of the draw of it myself. Did you – are you alright?”

“Got overwhelmed for a bit – too much sensory input – and sensory systems are running below spec cause they had to compensate,” Jazz replied. “But I’m okay. Just fritzed for a few nano-kliks, I guess, while Sigil did his thing. Self-preservation routines’ll power down and turn everything back to normal soon. What about you?” Now that the emergency was over, Jazz was able to take a minute and look Prowl over. “Those dents, that door – those’ve gotta hurt.”

Prowl grimaced. “Yes, and I will need medical attention to repair some of the damage. It isn’t urgent.”

Jazz frowned. “Don’t like seeing you hurt, Prowler.”

“It was worth the damage.” Prowl glanced at the barricade. “Capturing Shockwave would have been preferable but as it is – I’m just relieved you’re unharmed dearest.”

“At least Shockwave can’t use magic anymore, right?” Jazz tried, seeing Prowl was still distressed. “That’s gotta count for something.”

“Thank you, Jazz.” Prowl patted his hand, a touch absently. “It is true Shockwave can no longer work magic, but I worry what he’ll still be able to do with science. A monster doesn’t stop being a monster simply because its teeth are blunted.”

“True, but that’s a problem for another time, love.” Jazz moved his hand to wrap an arm around Prowl’s shoulders. “We can’t do anything about it right now.

“Yes, true.” Prowl took a reluctant step back. “And we mustn’t delay. Sigil will also require medical attention, and the deaths that occurred here will have to be reported to civilian authorities.”

Jazz was surprised. “What, you deal with Enforcers?”

Prowl began to walk back; Jazz followed. “They may have little cause to use them these days, but Enforcers have protocols in place to deal with the aftermath of magical crimes. It helps that Sigil, who is quite well respected, will be able to speak for us. I expect he’ll be instrumental in ensuring the facility is scoured and cleansed.”

“Really hope by ‘scoured and cleansed’ you mean ‘disassembled and smelted.’”

“I believe that would be preferable, although that will be up to civilian authorities.” Prowl’s tone added an ‘unfortunately’ to the end of that sentence. “They may prefer to simply clean and repurpose it.”

“Might wanna set foot in here before they decide that,” Jazz muttered.

“Yes.”

***

Prowl’s theory about Shockwave’s magic was confirmed by Sigil, who was alive and seemed stable even if he was injured. Emergency services were called, and within the cycle Jazz, Prowl, and Sigil were on their way to the city’s Primary Wellness Centre. Jazz guessed that was rich-mecha speak for the city’s central hospital. He wondered if they’d be habitués of the hospital or just regular patients.

A glimpse at the intake form told him they were called ‘convalescents.’ Okay then.

The three of them were separated, which Jazz did not like. Because he wasn’t injured, he got the fun of talking to the Enforcers first while Prowl and Sigil were treated. He really wanted to speak with Prowl, but their comms were blocked. Jazz could tell the Enforcers weren’t happy that he’d hacked their way into Shockwave’s lab but there wasn’t any other way to explain how they got in. They didn’t try to arrest him though – maybe because Shockwave wasn’t around to press charges, perhaps because he’d been with Prowl. Jazz got asked at least six times if he was there with Prowl and why, and nearly as often how he’d met Magister Sigil. What he’d seen of the fight between Prowl and Shockwave. Never mind that he’d been head down trying to free Sigil for most of it, apparently. He got it – if he were lying, asking him the same questions over and over would trip him up – but that didn’t mean he had to like it. He wanted to just leave, which he technically could since wasn’t under arrest, but they did have grounds to arrest him what with the hacking, so he gritted his teeth and repeated himself.

Finally, they claimed to have enough and left him alone. Jazz sighed and slumped in his chair. He was tired, hungry, and wanted to know how Prowl was. He wanted the reassurance of his quiet lover’s presence. He gave it nearly a quarter-cycle after the Enforcers left before taking the initiative and going to search for Prowl.

The Enforcers had separated them but kept them contained in the same area. Prowl’s injuries weren’t anything that required surgery so, like Jazz, he was in what was labelled as a Minor Procedure Room. Guarded, but still pretty accessible. Sigil’s injuries had been more severe, not surprising as he’d had Shockwave digging around his internals, so he’d been taken to Major Trauma.

There were Enforcers outside Prowl’s room, probably waiting to speak to him. So that was going to be a while if Jazz’s experience was anything to go by. There was a little four-seat waiting area up the hall, but there wasn’t much point in just sitting and waiting. Sitting and waiting off a hallway wasn’t much better than sitting and waiting in his room. Jazz stopped a passing orderly – they didn’t get fancy names – and asked where the nearest kiosk or cafeteria was. The orderly checked the hospital bracelet that’d been fixed around Jazz’s wrist before answering, then directed him to a café one floor down. So that killed a few kliks, and he was able to pick something up for Prowl as well. Still, it didn’t take up as much time as Jazz would have liked and by the time he was back up in the little area he wished he’d thought to ‘space a book or something before they’d gone out. Prowl would probably have something, but the Enforcers were in with him now, and Jazz had no way to ask. He had to settle for the magazines, encoded on flimsy one-use datapads, that were in the waiting area.

Finally, and in less time than they’d taken with Jazz which seemed unfair, the Enforcers left Prowl’s room and presumably went to hover at Sigil’s. Jazz tossed the magazine he’d been reading down on the seat next to him and went straight to his lover.

“Ah, my love,” Prowl said in obvious relief as soon as Jazz walked into the room. “Are you well?”

“I’m not hurt,” Jazz assured him, taking Prowl’s outstretched hand and kissing it as he closed the distance. “How’re you doing?”

One of Prowl’s doors was bandaged, so the damage must’ve been worse than it just being bent and one of the armour panels on his arm was patched. He needed a tube of filler and a polish at the least. Once Jazz had the space to stop and think about things he’d started worrying about internal damage. What if Prowl was hurt worse than it looked like?

“Minor damage,” Prowl assured him. “Shockwave is large and strong, but he was damaged and unused to fighting. I’m waiting now to find out if I must stay here overnight for observation. I expect to hear soon.”

“I’ll stay with you,” Jazz promised, and Prowl smiled warmly at him.

Jazz sat down next to Prowl and pulled his lover in against him with an arm around Prowl’s shoulders. They leaned tiredly into each other, pressed close on the narrow hospital bed.

“Wanna waste a day of vacation sleeping?” Jazz asked, letting his optics dim to half power. “’Cause that sounds really good right now.”

“It does,” Prowl agreed. “Tonight has been exhausting.”

“Primus, can’t believe it’s only one night.” Jazz put his head down on Prowl’s shoulder. “Feels like I just lay down to have you put the glyphs on me.”

“Yes.” Prowl picked up Jazz’s hand and examined his work. “Once we’ve returned to the apartment, would you like to have the etchings filled in?”

Jazz glanced at his arm, the bottom edge of the vambrace circled with glyphs from the Wizard’s Alphabet. “Think I’ll keep ‘em. Save you having to do them over again later.”

Prowl sighed and leaned his cheek against Jazz’s helm, sounding tired. “Primus forbid we should have another day like this. I’m still pleased you’re keeping them: I will feel better knowing you’re protected when you’re not with me.”

Jazz snuggled in closer and let his optics shut down. “Honestly, lover, me too.”

The nurse who came to tell them Prowl was being released had to wake them up to do it.

***

The rest of their vacation was much more relaxing – though winding up in the hospital after fighting a warlock was admittedly a pretty hard thing to top in terms of stress. Prowl went back to the magic shop to talk to Quickshadow, even though apprentices were legally considered kin and she would have been notified Sigil was in the hospital. Prowl wanted to make sure that she understood what had happened from the perspective of a fellow magic-user, for which she was grateful.

They also visited Sigil in the hospital, once he was out of surgery and aware. Just as Prowl initially had, Sigil mistook Jazz for an apprentice – Prowl’s in this case.

“Jazz is my lover, not my apprentice,” Prowl said mildly. The words were softly spoken, matter-of-fact, but they still gave Jazz a warm, fluttery feeling in his spark. “A musician.”

Sigil didn’t seem confused by the music-magic connection, just nodding at Prowl’s words and thanking he and Jazz again. Sigil was still weakened from his ordeal, and they did not stay long so that he could rest again.

One thing Sigil was able to tell them was that Shockwave’s experiments, the ones he had seen and been part of, were not responsible for the decline in magic on Cybertron. That left the idea that it was connected to a problem with the Core. Jazz had no idea how that would be fixed, or even if it could. One thing for sure, it wasn’t a problem for a lone wizard and his loving musician. That was Council, maybe even Prime-level business.

The rest of their vacation was a proper holiday. Among other things, Jazz got to go back to the entertainment district, which was still amazing even if he couldn’t afford to buy anything. They found an entire museum dedicated to the history of instruments on Cybertron, losing a good portion of a mega-cycle to it. Prowl brought them to a couple of shops Quickshadow had told them about, filled with kind of random but pretty cool things, eclectic in a way that reminded Jazz of Prowl’s workshop. Jazz found out about a racetrack whose surface was nearly as good as the driving paths in the parks and had a quarter mega-cycle where the fee was reduced for the general public and got to indulge. Completely worth it. A few of the Towers had sections open for tours, varying from tastefully expensive to proving money couldn’t buy taste. Like, at all.

“It’s gorgeous,” Jazz said, looking around one of the former, “yeah, but it’s too – I feel like I shouldn’t touch any of it. Living here’d be weird.”

“Would you prefer mismatched chairs in a corner?” Prowl asked, gently teasing. “A table piled with energon cubes that should be in the kitchen?”

“Oh yeah. Ex-cursed mirror in the landing, crystals hanging in the window in the music room…” Jazz was starting to miss Prowl’s house. His association with ‘home’ was switching from even the house he’d shared with Half-step to the one he often stayed over at but didn’t live in. But this was Prowl, and Jazz knew he’d be in his dorm room for a while yet.

“We’ll be back soon,” Prowl promised.

***

The train that would take them home to Altihex left in the evening at an odd, but inexpensive, hour. Jazz took a rear-facing seat and leaned against the window to watch Crystal City recede in the distance. Prowl sat across from him engrossed in a book the wizard had purchased in one of the eclectic shops, occasionally looking up to smile fondly at him. He also defeated Jazz soundly in three games of chess, and by a slender margin in a fourth, of which Jazz was extremely proud. Jazz still would’ve preferred to travel on his wheels, but he had to admit the train wasn’t bad.

It was late when they got to Altihex, later still when they got back to Prowl’s house, but not so much so it would have been unreasonable for Jazz to go back to his dorm.

“Will you spend the night?” Prowl asked, putting his arms around Jazz as the door slid closed. The wizard was warm, especially compared to the cold air of the house, whose heating system had been off while they were away.

“Course I will.” Jazz heard the house’s systems boot up from their quasi-dormant state as they registered the owner’s presence. “Any night you want, babe, just have to ask.”

Prowl stroked Jazz’s back, one of those little habitual touches he made as if for no other reason than to feel Jazz under his fingers. “Then, will you spend all of them?”

Jazz’s optics flickered in surprise.  “Love – Prowl, you’re asking me to move in with you?” Prowl, who he’d known for less than a stellar-cycle? Prowl, who’d wanted to take it slow? Jazz wasn’t objecting – hardly! – he just hadn’t expected to hear it so soon.

“It’s soon, yes,” Prowl admitted, “and I’m sure our experience in Shockwave’s lab is influencing my timing.” He locked his arms around Jazz’s waist. “However, I know when something is right. I see no further reason to delay. I don’t want to delay” Jazz grabbed for his abruptly scattered thoughts; Prowl searched his face, shyly adding, “do you?”

Jazz got his wits about him. “No, love, I don’t.” He framed Prowl’s face in his hands, bringing their heads together, forehelms touching. “Yes, I’ll move in with you. Course I will, Prowl.”

“Ah,” the wizard sighed, happy and relieved. As if he’d thought Jazz might really refuse. “Jazz. My beloved.”

“Yeah,” Jazz said lovingly, tucking Prowl close in a tight embrace. “Always.”