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The battlefield was chaos, as always—a sprawling mess of blaster fire, clashing melee weapons, and the endless roar of machinery. Prowl moved with calculated precision, every strike, every maneuver executed with the cold efficiency he was known for. His optics scanned for the familiar white-and-black form of his squadmate, Jazz.
Jazz wasn’t a typical mech. He had quirks—no discernible EM field, an unusual frame construction, and a tendency to evade personal questions. Prowl had assumed Jazz hailed from some obscure colony or planet, a mystery to be solved later. Jazz was reliable, sharp, and unnervingly calm under fire. Over time, trust had replaced suspicion.
Yet, something had always felt… off.
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The sharp crack of metal on metal tore him from his thoughts. Across the battlefield, Prowl’s optics locked onto Jazz just in time to see it: a jagged steel rod, hurled by some massive Decepticon brute, speared straight through Jazz’s chest.
Time slowed.
Jazz staggered, his visor flickering as the force of the impact sent him crashing to the ground. Sparks erupted where the rod had punched clean through, and for one horrified moment, Prowl thought he saw energon spilling from the wound. But as he pushed through the battlefield toward Jazz, something struck him as wrong.
The liquid seeping from the wound wasn’t blue.
Instead, there was a sluggish, dark liquid pooling around the rod—a color Prowl had never seen spill from a Cybertronian.
It was red.
“What…” Prowl’s vocalizer faltered. “What is this?”
Jazz gave a weak laugh, his voice strained. “Not the time for… questions, Prowler. Gotta… pull it out.”
Prowl’s servos hovered over the rod, trembling as he debated what to do. “You’re losing fluid. That’s not energon, Jazz. That’s—it’s—”
“Not energon,” Jazz said, cutting him off, his tone eerily calm despite the situation. “Don’t think about it, mech. Just get it out. ”
Prowl’s logic circuits screamed at him to wait for Ratchet, to handle this the right way. But the battlefield was unforgiving, and Jazz was slipping.
He gritted his denta, gripping the rod and wrenching it free in one swift motion. Jazz cried out, his whole frame jerking violently before he slumped back, panting.
“Okay,” Jazz wheezed, his visor dimming. “That… sucked.”
Prowl barely heard him. His optics were fixed on the rod in his hands, slick with dark red fluid that wasn’t hydraulic fluid, wasn’t coolant. It wasn’t Cybertronian.
It was dark, sticky, and alarmingly alien.
“Prowl,” Jazz wheezed, his visor flickering faintly. “Could use a little…help here.”
“You’re fine,” Prowl said sharply, though he barely believed it himself. “You’re a tough mech—you’ve survived worse.”
Jazz let out a weak laugh. “You’re too kind, Prowler…”
But his visor dimmed further, and panic surged through Prowl. He scooped Jazz into his arms and turned toward the Autobot outpost, running as fast as his pedes could carry him.
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Prowl hauled Jazz into his arms, his movements jerky as his systems struggled to catch up with his actions. He pushed through the battlefield, the weight of Jazz’s frame heavier than it should’ve been. Every step brought more questions—questions he didn’t have time to ask. Not yet.
By the time they reached the outpost, Prowl’s vents were heaving, and his patience was thin. “Ratchet!” he barked, his voice sharp. “Get over here, now!”
The medic emerged, tools in hand, his optics narrowing as he took in the sight. “What in the Pit—”
“He’s injured,” Prowl snapped, laying Jazz on the table. “Something’s… wrong. Just fix him.”
Ratchet moved quickly, his experienced hands examining the wound. As he peeled back Jazz’s plating to assess the damage, his optics widened in shock. “What the frag is this?”
“What?” Prowl demanded, stepping closer despite Ratchet’s glare.
Ratchet carefully pulled back more plating, exposing something neither of them expected. Beneath Jazz’s chest, where his spark chamber should’ve been, was a cockpit. And inside, harnessed to an intricate system of wires and controls, was an organic.
The organic was bloodied, his breathing shallow, and his expression strained with pain. His dark eyes flicked to Prowl, and despite everything, he smiled.
“Surprise,” Jazz rasped, his voice unmistakably his own.
Prowl staggered back, his systems short-circuiting in confusion. His processors were spinning, unable to comprehend the impossible truth before him.
“What—how—what is this?” Prowl’s voice cracked, his optics flickering as he tried to piece the fragmented information together.
Jazz, or whatever it was inside Jazz’s frame, gave a weak chuckle. It was still that familiar sound, despite the panic in Prowl’s chest, despite the reality shattering around him. “Didn’t wanna tell ya like this, Prowler. Bad timing.”
“You’re... an organic ?” Prowl’s voice was flat, each word tumbling out as if spoken in a different language. “This whole time... you’ve been piloting that frame. That’s why—there’s no EM field. That’s why—”
Jazz’s laugh was strained but unmistakably his. “Yeah, that’s why.”
Ratchet’s optics darted between Prowl and Jazz, his disbelief evident. “This... organic is wired into the frame. The frame isn’t alive. He’s... he’s the core.”
Prowl’s processor seized up, unable to reconcile the truth with the trust and camaraderie he’d shared with Jazz. A flood of memories—missions, conversations, victories—now felt hollow, tainted by the lie.
“You lied to me,” Prowl said, his voice low and trembling. “Everything—every moment, every fight—it was all a lie.”
“No,” Jazz said firmly, his organic eyes locking onto Prowl’s optics. “It was real, Prowler. Every word, every fight, every laugh—it was all me. Just... not the way you thought.”
The words didn’t soothe Prowl. If anything, they made the betrayal sting more. “You’re not Jazz. You’re just... some organic controlling him. You’re not real.”
Jazz flinched, and for the first time, his confidence faltered. “I am real, Prowl. I’m the same Jazz you’ve known. Just with a little... extra squish.”
His optics flickered, glitching as his processor tried—and failed—to make sense of this revelation. His vents came in short, sharp bursts, his spark pounding erratically in his chassis. Data poured into his mind like an overloaded communication channel, each piece of information a new fracture in the carefully constructed walls of logic and order he had built around himself.
“I don’t—” Prowl’s voice faltered, his mind struggling to form words. He clenched his fists, trying to steady himself, but his frame felt wrong. Heavy. Unstable. His systems were crashing. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Jazz’s weak grin faded into something more tired, but his voice was still the same—steady, confident, somehow familiar despite the chaos. “By the time I realized you weren’t piloted, it was too late for me to tell you that I was.”
Prowl’s optics narrowed, his frame stiffening as he stared at Jazz, his mind racing through a thousand unanswered questions. A thousand lies, a thousand moments now tainted. Every time he had trusted Jazz, every shared laugh, every strategy discussed—they all felt like hollow echoes now.
“I... I don’t...” Prowl began, but the words died in his vocalizer. His processor was too overwhelmed to finish the thought.
His frame jerked involuntarily, his systems suddenly pulling up error messages, red warnings flashing across his vision. A sudden, unexplainable weakness seized him. He was going offline. Too many systems were crashing at once.
Jazz’s optics—the organic’s eyes—met his, still as warm as ever, despite the agony. “Hey, you okay there, Prowler?”
Prowl was not okay.
His spark was thumping painfully in his chassis, the heavy beat of panic now overtaking everything. His systems were overloaded with conflicting emotions, disbelief and anger and confusion all tangled up with his sense of betrayal. It was like the floor had been yanked out from under him.
“No,” Prowl muttered, his voice growing weaker. “This isn’t possible. I… I knew you were different, but this…”
Ratchet stepped in, his voice a grounding force in the chaos. “Prowl, focus! You’re overheating. You need to stay together—”
But it was too late. His optics dimmed, flickering in and out as his mind struggled to adapt. His ventilation systems struggled to keep up, hissing in the silence of the medic's workspace.
“I…” Prowl’s voice wavered as he stumbled backward, as if gravity itself had shifted. He couldn't breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t—
Jazz’s organic eyes remained locked on him, filled with an unsettling blend of familiarity and sorrow. "Prowl… it wasn’t like that," Jazz’s voice was still strained, but despite that it was warm, still that strange comfort in the chaos. "I never wanted to hurt you. I didn’t plan for you to find out this way."
Prowl shook his head, trying to clear the fog overtaking his mind.
Ratchet's hands worked quickly, pulling him back into the moment, his voice a sharp contrast to the surreal stillness Prowl felt inside. "Prowl, snap out of it! You’re slipping into stasis! I need you to stay with me."
But Prowl’s mind was already a maze of contradictions. Jazz isn’t a mech . Jazz isn’t a Cybertronian. The person, the being, the friend he had fought alongside for cycles—wasn’t even what he thought he was. Jazz wasn’t real .
"No." Prowl’s vocalizer broke as he gasped, fighting against the overwhelming wave of emotion that threatened to drown him. The floor seemed to fall away, his vision flickering, fading, and then—
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Prowl’s optics powered back on in the medbay, diagnostic lights casting a sterile glow. A weight on his chest drew his attention, and his optics adjusted to find the organic—Jazz—sitting cross-legged on his chassis.
“Well, hey there, Prowler,” Jazz said, smiling softly. “You had me worried for a sec.”
Prowl stared, his systems still sluggish. His voice, when it came, was cold. “Get off me.”
Jazz didn’t move, his good hand braced against Prowl’s chestplate for balance. “Didn’t wanna sit on the table, so I improvised. Figured you wouldn’t mind.” He tilted his head, his grin faltering when Prowl didn’t respond.
Prowl’s response was immediate. He sat up abruptly, his motions sharp and unyielding. Jazz yelped as he lost his balance, tumbling awkwardly into Prowl’s lap. The sound—a startled, vulnerable noise—cut through the fog of Prowl’s disbelief. He froze, his optics locked on Jazz’s tiny, fragile form as the organic clutched his injured arm protectively.
It was too much.
With deliberate care, Prowl reached down, scooping Jazz up in his servos as if he were a piece of unstable cargo. His grip was firm, controlled, but there was no warmth in his touch.
“You lied,” Prowl growled, his voice low and dangerous, holding Jazz at arm’s length. His optics burned with anger and hurt. “You’re not Jazz. Jazz is a Cybertronian. Jazz is... my partner.”
Jazz’s expression softened, his eyes meeting Prowl’s with quiet determination. “I am your partner, Prowl. That hasn’t changed.”
But for Prowl, it had. Everything had. And he didn’t know how to put the pieces back together.
“You’ve been lying to me this entire time,” Prowl said, his voice trembling with barely contained emotion. “Pretending to be one of us. Pretending to be him.”
Jazz’s voice was steady, his tone calm even as Prowl’s fury threatened to overwhelm the room. “I didn’t pretend to be anything. I am Jazz. Same mech you’ve fought beside all these cycles. Same mech who’s had your back through everything. That’s real, Prowler.”
“It’s not,” Prowl shot back, his vents sputtering as his systems struggled to keep up with the maelstrom of emotions inside him. “You’re just... an organic. A pilot. A lie. ”
Jazz flinched at the word, but he didn’t look away. “You don’t believe that,” he said quietly. “You can’t.”
Prowl’s grip tightened, his servos trembling as he fought against the tidal wave of confusion and hurt threatening to drown him. “I don’t know what to believe anymore,” he muttered, his voice raw. “I trusted you.”
“You still can,” Jazz said softly, his gaze unwavering.
Prowl shook his head, setting Jazz down on the medbay table with more care than his anger suggested. His movements were stiff, mechanical, as if he were on autopilot. “I can’t,” he said finally, turning away. “I need... time.”
Jazz didn’t try to stop him. His expression was unreadable as he watched Prowl walk away, his frame rigid, his vents sharp and uneven.
“Take all the time you need,” Jazz murmured, though he knew Prowl wouldn’t hear him.
As the medbay doors hissed shut behind him, Prowl’s thoughts spiraled in an endless loop, a chant that echoed in his spark with every step he took:
This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real.