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Jazz slips out the door silently, welcoming the cool air as it graces his heated frame. The sounds of the bar get muffled as the door slides shut, a physical barrier between Jazz and the half-party still roaring inside. Outside, it’s blissfully silent. He sighs in relief, limping further away from the door towards the rails.
The roof is obviously incomplete. There are supplies scattered around; overturned buckets and heaps of scrap metal, all forgotten and collecting dust. He even sees some things from the bar's construction taking up a corner, likely shoved up here to be out of the way. It matches the theme of the base, at least. Everything is still being built or going through repairs, and many less-used sectors have been abandoned in favor of focusing on the more important areas. The only places in Horizon that are complete and functional are the main command spaces and officer quarters, yet even there the walls are bare and floor rickety. The roof, as incomplete as it is, appears stable enough. Under Jazz’s pedes there are patches of exposed pipes and scaffolding that haven’t been closed over yet, or tarps that do a shoddy job of covering very obvious holes. Jazz steps carefully around them, completely silent as to not disturb the rare peace.
Around him, the city is blanketed in the night. Horizon had been constructed in the heart of Simfur, a sub-level city that is now partly abandoned. Being below the surface, the city is a mass of interconnected and layered buildings, stacked atop each other to create walls of apartments and deep crevices that lead straight to the planet's core. Before the war, Simfur had served as a mining city, with the bottom layers constructed of mineral refineries and mining sites. The further you rise, the more sophisticated the buildings become, until you have the rare church jutting out beyond the cluster of homes and restaurants. Horizon, the latest Autobot installment, takes up a large majority of the city’s downtown area. Thanks to the connected nature of the buildings, it was easy to tear down walls and build your way up, all while providing a stable skeleton to fill with armeries and intelligence offices. The citizens who chose to stay, even under the threat of Autobot occupation, have now fled to the lower layers of the city.
At its highest point Horizon overlooks the entirety of Simfur, which seems to flood from the base, given its circular perimeters. The bar, and subsequently the roof, happens to be near the top. It allows for the rare sliver of moonlight to shine down on Jazz, leaking through the cracked openings of the planet's surface. The rest of the city is largely swallowed in shadows. Even Horizon is sparsely lit in an attempt to not be easily noticed from above. The only artificial light that Jazz can see comes from the lower occupied spaces, where few Cybertronions prepare for recharge. Jazz wants to be with them, down there. He wants to walk the streets of such a city, to feel the sharp angles beneath his pedes and climb the many stairs. He wants to know how it feels to rarely see the sun and be surrounded by the natural metal of Cybertron's surface. Many walls at the edges of the city are natural, with buildings carved into the actual planet rather than built upon. He wants to know how they function.
He reaches the rails, grabbing them with both servos. The metal is rough under his palms, and when Jazz leans on them, he feels them lean with him. He stretches his helm beyond the edge, feeling the cool rush of wind from above blow past him. Simfur is much like a bowl, Jazz muses. What natural air makes its way down here floods in from the top of the bowl to gather in the bottom before making its way back up the opposite end.
The air smells of industry and oil. He vents in deep, tasting the dirt and rust of age on his gloassa. He closes his optics. He imagines, for a moment, that the city is alive. Others talking and walking around him, all throughout the city. The beautiful lamps that he has only heard of, constructed from natural ores or all colors, stringed about in every street. Music echoing around caverns; laughter.
“I wouldn’t lean on those if I were you. They’ll break.”
Jazz whips around as fast as his frame will allow. All at once, the sounds of laughter are gone, replaced by the whispers of wind and the energon rushing through his own audials. It takes him no time at all to locate the voice, looking up at the construction platform set against the wall that the door is in. Now that Jazz actually looks, it's the wall of the building built atop of this one. The construction platform is shoddy, with thin steel supports and a couple of sheets of metal.
Two cold, calculating blue optics meet him. A bright red chevron, glinting in the pale moonlight; a set of doorwings, cutting an imposing silhouette in the shadows.
Jazz curses his injuries. He hadn’t even realized he was being watched, and now that he knows, he can’t help the odd rush of excitement and fear that overtakes his spark.
“How do you know?” He asks.
The figure stares at him for klik. Then, “My brother was leaning on them when they broke. He scraped off half his paint being hauled back up.”
“Oh.” He can imagine that. He had heard of someone falling, earlier. “You’re Chromedomes conjux.”
His intake moves faster than his processor. Those optics narrow dangerously. Prowl leans further over his own rails to scowl at Jazz.
“I beg your pardon?”
His voice is eerily calm. It’s an odd juxtaposition from his expression, which makes it look like he’s kliks away from jumping down from that construction platform and throwing Jazz over the roof. Despite this, Jazz can’t step down now. He’s said what he’s said, and now he has no choice but to lay in his grave. He’s no coward. He puts on his most charming smile, servos on his hips with his voice light and casual.
“I mean, I think you’re conjuxed with Chromedome, if I heard that right?” He winces behind his visor. He sounds much more nervous than he intended.
Prowl at least seems to back down. The fury on his faceplate melts into cool indifference, as if the subject of their conversation is suddenly the most boring thing he’s ever heard. Jazz tracks the flat line of Prowl’s lips and the subtle rotation of his optics, likely trying to see Jazz better in the low light. Apparently he doesn't like what he finds, because he looks away quickly. “Thats none of your business.”
Jazz shakes his helm and waves his servos, trying to salvage this. “No, no, I’m not suggestin’ whether it actually happened or not. I’m just sayin’ that I recognize you from when I heard that rumor.”
He had been in the bar. On the stools around him were Tracks, Bulkhead, Blindside, and Crenex. In front of him, Swerve was pouring three different drinks, caught up in conversation with one mech or another. They all chatted idly about this or that, simply thankful that a place like a bar was even open for idle conversation away from war and death. The music was bumping and the smell of engex permeated the air; Jazz was content. Then Crenex had whistled low, leaning towards Blindside to whisper conspiratory in his audial. That obviously caught everyone's attention, and they all moved to follow Crenex's stare.
A mech had just walked into the bar. He was clearly Praxian, with a handsome arrangement of black and white on his frame. Jazz watched him walk across the floor, helm held high and confident as he pushed his way through the crowd. He moved stiffly with his arms straight down to his sides and doorwings rigid. He looked oddly familiar, causing Jazz’s processor to scramble trying to place a designation. Behind him, someone snickered. Jazz turned back, surprised to find everyone now huddled close, speaking low like they were afraid others would hear. Jazz, infinitely curious and not one to be left out, leaned in as well.
“...with the rest of the Iaconion front, yeah.”
Right! That's where he had seen him–he had been one of the mechs to come off the ship from Iacon a couple cycles ago, accompanied by the Prime himself. He was handsome then, too. Jazz glanced back, catching the end of a doorwing disappearing into a busy seating area. He was a little disappointed to lose him, enjoying the sight of icy blue optics and a sharp nose ridge. But he turned his attention back to the group, suddenly very excited to learn more about the stoic mech. Who could blame him?
Tracks was nodding, “Heard he’s taking command soon.”
That got some groans and sour faces. Jazz smiled, elbowing a moping Bulkhead in the side. “What’s so bad ‘bout the mech? Ya’ll are actin’ like he's gonna make you scrub the floors for the next quartex.”
“He might,” Bulkhead grumbled.
The music made it a little hard to hear, but Jazz managed to catch some opinions; Prowl–that’s the designation–is a stubborn aft, a Decepticon spy, a glitch from the pits, and annoyingly attractive. Jazz personally had to agree with the last one, though annoyingly seems a bit much. The rest, however, caught Jazz off guard. Last he heard, Prowl was exceptionally smart, which is what landed him his promotion in the first place. Not only that, but he was the best at his job, too.
When Jazz mentioned this, he wasn’t disputed. However, the origins of Prowl’s new promotion to head tactician were argued: the previous head was found to be a traitor, both sabotaging Autobot operations and leaking intel to Deepticons; Prowl was the one to catch him. Or, Prowl intentionally sabotaged his commanding officer; Prowl used his close connection to Optimus as a manipulation tactic; Prowl spark-bonded with Chromedome to get favors; Prowl used his tacnet (a real, functioning tacnet) to somehow to get his promotion–
“Wait–pause! Prowl is conjuxed?”
Crenex scoffed, face scrunched up in disgust. “Not on paper, but everyone knows he’s involved with that mnemosurgeon, Chromedome. Apparently they knew each other before the war.”
Spark-bonding. The most intimate thing a Cybertronion can do with another–better than organic sex, apparently. It’s highly taboo, only supposed to be done after the proper paperwork and legal bindings, and only ever with the one you intend to become conjux endura with. Jazz wasn’t disappointed, just–huh. “You think they’re serious?”
He couldn’t help but ask. Not that he was interested. But Prowl was a smart and attractive mech…one couldn’t help but wonder.
The question was hilarious, apparently. Crenex burst into giggles, shaking his helm, “Unicron, no,” He wheezed, “with a bumper like that–maybe, but his attitude is enough to turn anyone off!”
Jazz had been uncomfortable then, and is uncomfortable now. He really, really needs to learn when to shut up. He is a social mech by nature, and Prowl managed to very much catch his attention–it’s the first time in a long while that another managed to interest him so much. In his own excitement, he managed to talk about the one thing he shouldn't have mentioned. It’s been nearly a vorn since he's been around decent folk, he forgets at times the harm these things cause.
Prowl is still looking away, and Jazz knows that he’s hurt him. Prowl’s doorwings drop a fourth of a centimeter and his optics dim minutely–all signs of a mech with sparkache. Then Prowl’s optics brighten again, and he moves away from the rail. “I think I’m going to say good-night,” he announces, voice quieter than it had been just kliks ago.
Primus, Jazz is an idiot.
“Wait! Wait, wait,” He steps towards the construction platform. Prowl pauses, looking back down at him. “No. Wait. Start over. Who cares about Chromedome? I’m Jazz.” His voice squeaks oddly. Prowl continues to stare. Jazz resets his vocalizer. “That’s my name.”
There's silence. Prowl continues to stare at him from above, haloed by the moonlight, making Jazz sweat. Finally, right before Jazz is gonna try for a lame joke, he speaks.
“...I see.”
Prowls attention is on him, at least. He tries again. “I’m introducing myself. Who are you?”
Prowl is quick to respond, “I thought you knew all about me.”
Jazz swallows before chuckling. It sounds nervous because he is nervous. “No, I don’t know anything. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. It’s all hearsay. So anyways…you’re Prowl.”
Prowl (Prowl, Prowl, Prowl) moves back to the rails, placing both servos on them to lean over and see Jazz better. He looks surprised, for a klik, with optics wide and lips parted. Jazz is struck with just how pretty he is, all elegance and stoicism, and is even more surprised at how terrified that makes him. His spark is spinning erratically and his right servo keeps picking at a spot of peeling paint on his thigh, despite him having thought he killed the habit.
“So you do know me, after all.” Prowl says, and Jazz swears there is something amused in his tone, even as he frowns.
Jazz smiles, wide and real, and nods. “After all? Yes.”
He had seen Prowl leave the ship and speak directly with Optimus Prime. Of course he had been curious–did some digging through some files for a basic idea of mech, and was fascinated with what he found. Prowl, as a whole, is a well-kept secret. There is little on his record beyond hailing from Praxus and being a loyal Autobot tactician, so Jazz suspects that the rumors stem from mechs filling in missing information. He ignores the rumors from the bar; the result of hyperactive imaginations, he knows this. He's heard his fair share of rumors about himself, especially since his return from Kaon. Some have lost their trust in him while others regard him now as a martyr; he uses what he can, and forgets the rest. He does the same for Prowl.
Prowl, the real one, the one looking at Jazz like he's a puzzle yet to be solved, is a mystery. Something in Jazz's processor ticks at that, the thought of finding out more from this unknown and elusive mech making him eager to do something. It's the same feeling as breaking into a Decepticon outpost and taking the place of one of the guards, that same exhilaration of finding out the truths of the world.
“You an enforcer, Prowl?” Even in the low light, Jazz can see the old enforcer decals decorating the mechs frame. There aren't many of them–one on his chassis and across the broad panels of his doorwings, but they're there, snagging Jazz's attention now he notices them.
Prowl quickly loses any sign of amusement. He turns cold again, flicking his left doorwing in thought. Jazz can see the gears turning behind Prowl's optics, like he's deliberately deciding just how much he wants to reveal to a stranger. Smart.
“I was constructed as an enforcer. I was groomed for that purpose. I don't consider that my identity.” It comes out quickly, like he had to spit out the facts before he changed his mind. But then he sighs, and his attention is pulled away from Jazz as he stares over him to the rows ruined of Simfur architecture in front of them. “Anyway, look around. What difference does it make now?”
He sounds mournful. Cold constructed as an enforcer in Praxus checks out, even goes as far as to make sense. Praxus had fallen towards the start of the war; any identity that stemmed from the city is now null in the eyes of their culture. Prowl, for all intents and purposes, is no longer a Praxian enforcer but rather a refugee of war with no place to return to. He is one of millions, and just another victim of others’ violence. He not only mourns his city, truthfully Jazz doesn't even know if Prowl liked the city, but also what it represented. Praxus was strong, but it was neutral. It was a symbol of order and peace, and it had been destroyed to prove a point. Those that survived were left with nothing; their only options were to flee to other cities, many of which no longer accepted refugees, or assimilate themselves into the very war that killed their brethren. Prowl was right in his question; his past as an enforcer means nothing. Not anymore.
Jazz watches him and feels his spark break. Prowl's optics are distant, his processor somewhere far from here. He can only stand so much of it. Facts are facts. Everyone's history, no matter how insignificant now, has to mean something. “So that's a yes.”
Prowl turns back to him, and that surprise returns. But there's something more–brighter optics, the ghost a smile. “Yes, I used to be.”
Prowl is a beauty of strength and perseverance. Now the Autobot Head Tactician, there was no arguing his skills, even if his ways of acquiring them were less than savory. But who was anyone to judge? How many had to die for Orion Pax to be instated as the new Prime? Everyone has their own means of survival–it so happens that Prowl was set on doing more than just surviving.
Jazz spark spins faster, if that is even possible. “May I join you?”
He doesn't wait for an answer. As soon as the glyphs leave his mouth he's scrambling towards the ladder that leads up the platform, trying to look smooth and chill even as his frame screams in protest. He fails grandly when he nearly falls off the ladder three times, and by the time he manages to haul himself onto the platform, his fans have kicked on.
When he pulls himself back up onto his pedes, he finds Prowl staring at him. The Praxian looks wholly unimpressed, an eyebrow ridge quirked and arms crossed. But Jazz physically sees the moment Prowl takes his frame into stock, from his stripped knee joint to the swathes of welds, and it registers to him what he's seeing.
Prowl is even prettier up close. “You're injured.”
“Hm. What else is new? You should see the other guy.” Jazz grins.
Prowl watches him carefully as Jazz hobbles over to stand beside him. His faceplate is full of sharp features that come together handsomely, with a beautifully curved helm to match. And that chevron–a stark red, an odd compliment that somehow works. Jazz leans on the rails here for support, taking his weight off his newly-attached leg.
“Actually, there is no other guy,” He huffs between vents, “I managed to hit a landmine leaving Kaon. Blew halfa me right off.”
His grin remains, even as his hip creaks ominously into the night air. He tries to be charming and finds himself actually praying that it works. He props his elbow on the rails, facing Prowl properly and putting his other servo on the hip that is still making weird sounds. Prowl glances about his frame, even going as far as to lean closer towards Jazz to stare at his marred neck. Jazz doesn't mind, honestly.
Prowl leans back, gesturing towards Jazz's throat instead. “What else?”
“What do you mean?”
“What else happened? The landmine is likely given your more serious injuries, but that leaves little reason for both your main intake and vocalizer to be slashed.” His optics narrow on Jazz, all but daring him to lie. Jazz's grin grows.
“There were plenty o'mechs that tried takin’ me down themselves. Most didn't get very far, but one lucky slagger managed a good cut. He didn't get farther than that.”
Jazz had ripped their throat out quickly after. But he knew it left an ugly mark across his own neck that won't heal anytime soon, especially considering his vocalizer and comms still needed repair. Prowl at least looks satisfied with the answer, moving back to lean on the rails himself with a polite hum.
“You're a special agent; a glorified assassin.” Prowl doesn't look accusatory, simply stating more facts.
Jazz nods, then shrugs. “Yeah, assassin, killer, whatever floats your boat. But aren't we all?” Prowl shoots him a dangerous look. “On the last analysis, I mean.”
Prowl makes no comment, just schools his face back to that careful neutrality and glances at Jazz sideways. But Jazz has a feeling that he agrees with him. For all of Prowl's supposed indifference, Jazz is learning very quickly that the tactician has no problem voicing his objections. Jazz sees Prowl's optics flash for a moment before his servo flies to his subspace and he begins digging around. To Jazz’s surprise, he pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Jazz isn't sure why he's surprised, smoking is a common habit many mechs have adopted, but he finds the surprise to be good. He is pleasantly surprised, even. A professional mech like that, out here smoking on a shady roof with a glorified assassin. It's almost enough to make him laugh.
Prowl doesn't offer him a cigarette. If it were anyone else, Jazz would take offense, but Prowl is becoming an exception to many things dangerously fast. He pulls out one cigarette and puts the rest back, then begins to spark his lighter. Jazz sees a star fall in the reflection of the silver.
Prowl brings the cigarette to his lips, placing it gently between them. Jazz has never paid more attention to anything in his life. Prowl leans his forearms now against the rails. The lighter keeps clicking in his servo, refusing to light, and Jazz can hear each ping rattle his processor. He has the insane urge to take the lighter and ignite the cigarette in Prowl's mouth for him. To bring that flame to Prowl's lips and watch him lean towards it, towards him, and watch the hollowing of cheeks and the movement of his neck as he inhales; the expansion of his chassis as his fans work to take in that smoke and expel it. But he settles for watching Prowl bring the now lit flame to his own lips, his free servo cupped around the lighter to stop the wind from blowing it out. He leans forwards so the tip of the cigarette catches, face becoming illuminated in a gentle glow, and that's it.
The lighter is put back in subspace. Prowl vents in, holds it, and vents out, smoke curling past his perfectly rounded lips into the space in front of them.
Prowl holds the cigarette gingerly between his pointer and middle fingers, keeping it close to his mouth to take another drag. Jazz feels his processor getting smoked alongside it, his olfactory sensors picking up the bitter smell from the otherwise clean air. He doesn't mind.
Prowl takes two more drags, Jazz counts, before glancing at him again. They've been sitting in silence except for the gentle rush of the night breeze from above and the muffled sounds of the bar below them. But here, on this platform, it's just them.
At some point, Jazz’s grin had slipped, and his mouth was hanging open. He closes it with an audible snap, and Prowl's glance turns curious. Those blue optics continue to spin.
“Do you really have a tacnet? The illegal mod?” He blurts out, shattering the peaceful (tense?) silence with his too-loud voice. But curiosity has been eating him alive from the processor out, another piece to the puzzle Jazz desperately wants to slot into place.
Prowl at least doesn't look confused or offended. Instead he puffs out another cloud of smoke, this time from his nose, and Jazz's processor melts just a little at the sight.
“I was the Primal Advisor.” Prowl states.
Jazz leans closer, trying to vent in more of that smoke, trying to see that faceplate a little more clearly, “You know a lot, then.”
“Some things.”
Jazz can see Prowl in Iacon, standing at Sentinel's side with those intelligent optics. “Can I see?”
Prowl faces Jazz properly, cigarette back in his mouth. He takes Jazz in, all his leaking welds and ugly stealth mods. Jazz can feel those optics tear him apart; the power behind that processor evaluating him. It's exhilarating, to just be seen by Prowl. He imagines the specs in that helm, the computing speed and the logic centers superiority. It makes him shiver.
Prowl finally looks at him in his optics. “Maybe, if I get to know you better,” and blows smoke in his face.
Jazz coughs, turning his faceplate into his elbow to hack into it. Prowl grins, the most attractive thing Jazz has ever seen, and turns back towards the city. Jazz's optics well with tears from the force of his coughing, his fans clocking into a higher setting to clear the obstruction.
Jazz feels drunk. His helm is light. “Fair enough,” he grunts, vocalizer momentarily ruined and laced with static.
After a few more kliks his ventilatory systems manage to clear out the smoke. When he stops coughing he straightens, venting hard through his mouth a few times before finally catching proper air. Without feeling like he would choke and die, he's able to notice Prowl shaking beside him.
He's laughing.
Well, it's more like giggling, but it's such a wonderful sound that Jazz joins, loud and bright. He's laughing, and he's realizing that it's the first time he's laughed in a long, long time, and then he wants to cry. But he keeps laughing anyways, then Prowl snorts, and Jazz nearly collapses with how hard he wheezes.
They exist like this for a time, laughing themselves into a near hysteria until they simply can't anymore. Gradually they come down from whatever high had built between them, giggling and chuckling until they're contented sparks spin at an average rate again.
Prowl takes a drag of his cigarette and sighs, keeping the smoke away from Jazz's faceplate this time. Jazz has a large, dopey smile plastered on said faceplate, arms crossed on the rails and leaning on it dangerously for support. Prowl giggles one last time, then his expression settles. Not that cool professionalism from before, but something more calm and open. Something that gives Jazz a pause.
“It's not true, by the way. About me and Chromedome.” Jazz doesn't dare interrupt. Prowls eyebrow pinch together, optics narrowing as anger gradually makes itself known. But it's the carefully restrained sort that accompanies unpleasant memories, the kind that Jazz knows means there's nothing more to be done. Prowl sighs again, tilting his helm towards what would be the sky. “For the record, I would never share my spark with someone in these conditions.”
His helm is tilted away, but Jazz knows Prowl is staring at him from the corner of his optics. Tactical networking. The only one in operation, supposedly. Whether a mistake or not, Prowl holds the single most advanced and illegal mod on Cybertrons history. And what did he get for it? He was made Sentinels pet. Jazz had heard the stories–even seen them, back when he was living in Iacon. Sentinel didn't have a kind bolt in his frame, and his treatment of his staff was appalling. Jazz could only imagine what abuse Prowl had suffered under him. Or even the lack of it–he couldn't assume. Too many have been doing that, lately.
But he can't help but think. He tilts his helm towards the city, tearing his optics away from Prowl. Prowl, who is now High Command, with a tactical network in his processor that he's had since this war started. And now that he's here with the Autobots, the ones that are supposed to be better, he is put in another cage. He doesn't get respect or friendly welcomes, just harmful rumors and distrust, despite there being no evidence for it. Jazz isn't one to trust–far from it actually–and he is certain that if given a real reason, he could kill Prowl with little thought. But even then, he knows it's unfair to assume. Especially making assumptions about those nobody knows, who are new and just trying to get by.
But Prowl was here now. Next to him, that is. And he is so, so smart–everything he does is on purpose. Jazz is a bug trying to keep up with a spider, getting caught in a net again and again and happy to do so. Prowl isn't conjuxed. Prowl did not spark-bond. Prowl is looking at Jazz.
“I don't believe in Primes. I never did. It's against my principles.” Jazz mutters.
Prowl turns to him, watching intently. He doesn't say anything. Jazz raises his helm, turning to face Prowl too. He continues, “But this is no place for a mech like you. You belong somewhere. You're too smart for war.”
A bug caught in the web, happy to be there. If Jazz is to be consumed, he wants to give something in return before he's dead, something more than his rotting frame.
Prowl smiles, something cruel in his optics. “Oh, I'm a strong mech. You don't have to worry about me.”
Then the tactician puts out his cigarette against the rail, snuffing it in the rusting metal. Jazz is still reeling from the nearly sarcastic tone of Prowl's voice–was he joking? Speaking to Jazz like he's a newforge worried for their mentor, and walking past him entirely composed like what Jazz had said was insignificant.
Jazz stands up straight, following Prowl with his optics as he walks to the edge of the platform, where the ladder is. Prowl meets his optics, still smiling; still cruel.
“Good-night.”
Jazz's vocalizer lurches in time with his spark. “I hope I'll see you again.”
Prowl pauses. Jazz is surprised to find he means it–he really does hope he'll see Prowl again.
“Here's one.”
Jazz tilts his helm, “One what?”
Prowl takes the cigarette butt in his servo and holds it up. His faceplate is back to that cold professionalism–contemplation Jazz realizes. Prowl walks back to the rail, still holding the cigarette butt up like an important datapad. Then he meets Jazz's optics.
“If I throw this cigarette, based on the trajectory of the wind, the force behind the toss, and a great other things, there is a 73% chance it will land in the bin.” Prowl points somewhere over the rail, and Jazz follows it to a trash bin in the corner of the roof. Then Prowl throws the cigarette.
At first, it appears as though the thing will simply fall straight down, but miraculously a gust of wind picks up and the cigarette butt is carried gently into the trash bin.
Jazz can't believe it. He would laugh if he weren't so shocked.
Prowl would look nervous if it wasn't for the proud raise of his doorwings. “There's no way for me to accurately display the full extent of my capabilities, so you'll have to infer the rest.”
Jazz imagines that probability understanding applied to a battle plan; the rapid accounting for different variables and the near instant adjusting for such outcomes, as well as the massive and whole understanding of all that's involved, all leading to a percentage. The amount of time that saves, as well as the accuracy, is invaluable. He imagines Prowl in his command chair, herding and heading the chaos of active battle. Primus, this war would've been over.
Jazz smiles. “I can picture it.”
Prowl stands for a moment. Jazz stares, processor swimming with the possibilities and spinning itself into a spiral. Prowl is bathed in moonlight, his pale white paint glowing. After the moment passes, Prowl nods, then he's turning and climbing down the ladder with doorwings twitching.
Jazz watches his back as he goes but doesn't follow. It's late. They both need the recharge. What little light from the lower layers of the city has long gone out. Even the sounds of the bar seemed to have faded; Jazz can hardly hear them now. He vents in deep, smelling the leftover smoke in the air still lingering. He lets it in his frame as he had done before, ghosting through his vents and throat before being naturally expelled.
That mech is dangerous for Jazz, and he has never been more excited.