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[Jazz.]
Jazz bounces side to side to the song softly filtering through his speakers and continues working at the console. The screen flashes a bright red and he frowns, skipping to the next song.
[Jazz.]
He flicks through another five songs before settling on something punchier and completely discordant to the mood and situation he's in right now. Perfect. He turns his speakers up minimally for good measure, his pede tapping a rhythm against the concrete under him.
[I can see you reading my comms.]
He turns up his music again.
[Answer me.]
[Kinda busy here Prowler]
[I need help.]
click-clack-click-click
[Jazz.]
clack-clack-clack
The screen briefly washes Jazz in a turquoise and lets out a soft ding. He switches tracks again.
[I'm stuck.]
This finally gives him pause.
[?]
Prowl pings him his location within the complex and doesn't elaborate. This guy.
Jazz ex-vents witheringly and hurries through the rest of the data upload, dumping whatever he can onto the chip and leaving the actual sorting to the next poor sap. Disconnecting from the terminal, he transforms, cruising his way through the dilapidated building until he reaches the back entrance of the complex, his music echoing down the otherwise lifeless hallways. He takes to his root mode again as he leaves behind the stale air of the abandoned outpost for the slightly-less-stale-air of the outside, where he meets a Prowl who does not, in any way, look stuck.
And who also looks like he’s seen better days.
“Jeez mech, I thought we were the only ones out here, why do you look like you just got jumped by the terrorcons?!”
His black and white frame is dented to hell and back, paint scratched and jaw dangling off of his face by a mere two cables, and still Prowl manages to maintain his air of indifference as he rolls his optics at the sports car.
[We are the only ones out here.]
“Alright,” Jazz clucks, tilting his head at him. “And that whole being stuck thing?”
Sparks fly from what remains from Prowl’s jaw and he winces before correcting himself.
[You were taking too long. I got out myself.]
He gestures with the hand that isn't holding his jaw together towards the suspiciously mech sized pit on his left, half concealed by a suspiciously ground-colored tarp, surrounded by a suspicious mound of disturbed dirt and foliage, to boot.
Jazz has never seen a more obvious booby-trap in his entire functioning and his plating tightens with the effort it takes to stop himself from laughing.
“Dude,” he strains out.
He’s fixed with one of Prowl's patented glares, which has little to no effect on him as his composure finally breaks and he doubles over laughing.
[This isn't funny.]
Jazz laughs harder, fans clicking on as he falls to the ground.
[Jazz, please.]
“How did–how–you can't–” he chokes, “you can't be serious!”
Ever skilled in the art of being irritated, Prowl sighs, turning around and half stomping, half limping away from the base.
Jazz just barely manages to compose himself enough to stumble after him, keeping a few paces behind, visor bright and smile wide where Prowl can't see it.