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Jazz hated doing reports.
It was the one real bane of having accepted his promotions. Before, he’d been able to give verbal reports to his superiors and skirt around doing physical reports. Now, not only was he Head of Special Operations, but he was Third in Command; he was expected to submit comprehensive reports to multiple departments.
Not to mention the reports that he was supposed to be reading and being briefed on in turn.
Jazz had been careful to cultivate the type of persona that got away with being late with reports, with going off script and improvising. It was the sort of thing that had protected him for a long time, but it had kept him from advancing in rank for a time as well. As the war advanced and they lost more and more people though… eventually even that hadn’t been enough to keep Jazz from ranking up.
Missing reports never used to matter, Jazz had always made sure to call a meeting or send a courier for anything truly important. He worked around not doing his paperwork and for the longest time, it had been enough.
At least until Prowl had been promoted to Second in Command.
Prowl had always given him plenty of grief over his submitted reports (when he bothered to do them) when the Praxian was just head of Tactical, but now that he was SIC of the whole Autobot faction? The mech was relentless.
It had gotten to the point that Jazz had fumbled through a few and gotten Mirage to spruce them up for him before sending them off. Just enough to appease Prowl when he got into a mood about the lack of ‘propriety’ on Jazz’s end.
See, the problem wasn’t actually that Jazz didn’t care. Jazz cared a lot. He wasn’t stupid, or lazy or too carefree like so many accused him of being when it came to the paperwork side of his rank.
The problem was that Jazz couldn’t do the reports.
Glyph had always been a struggle for Jazz. Oh, spoken word was fine enough. He had a perfect command of Neo-Cybex, despite others’ views on the ornly way he butchered the language with some Polyhexan thrown in. He was fluent in multiple languages, actually. It was the sort of thing that made him a master at blending in with all types of mecha.
But when it came to the actual, written glyph?
No, Jazz couldn’t do it. Some times it wasn’t too bad, if the words were spaced out enough, or were just on their own. He could usually guess his way through mission statements and battle-plans, at least enough that he had a rough idea of where he and his mecha were supposed to be. Though some orns he went a bit off-script and had to improvise. It was a good thing that Jazz was just Prime at improvisation, but that was the sort of thing that made Prowl go absolutely apoplectic about.
Other times… other times it was impossible. The glyphs blurred together into one long stream, shifting and rising from the screen until it made his optics ache. Ache like how they had before Jazz had gotten his visor to help with the sensitivity in his optics and Jazz knew, knew, that it was the sort of defect that would have gotten him smelted before the Decepticon uprising.
It was the sort of thing that had almost lured Jazz over to the Decepticons. Back when they had seemed to be the better of the two options. Back when Megatron had spoken of being allowed to be who you wanted to be, not what the government said you had to be. Back before the power of the uprising had gotten to Megatron, back before Optimus Prime had existed and professed the same ideas but without the wholesale slaughter of anyone who disagreed with him.
When the Decepticons had gone from doing what needed to be done to topple their tyrannical government, to wanton destruction was when Jazz had noped himself out and over to the Autobots. He wasn’t trading one boot for another, thank you very much.
So no, Jazz couldn’t do reports, but that was fine. He was managing to muddle through his responsibilities, and Optimus certainly never complained about any of his reports.
The only one who seemed to let it get under their plating was Prowl. Prowl who wanted perfection not just from himself, but from those around him. Prowl who would frown at him at meetings when Jazz didn’t read along with the data-pad full of reports – and why would he ever try to read them while they were talking about them? It was stupid. Reports were stupid.
When Prowl would push, Jazz would brush it off. Reports were a vulnerability that spec.ops mecha couldn’t afford. It wasn’t laziness, it was paranoia. Totally different and totally normal for a saboteur.
Prowl didn’t must not have gotten that memo though, because now the Praxian was in Jazz’s office, sitting in his chair and rifling through the handful of reports that Jazz had started. Reports that Jazz hadn’t gotten finished enough for Mirage to spruce up for him.
Jazz froze at the doorway, knowing that there was no way the Praxian’s sensor-wings hadn’t already caught him, but also delusionally hopeful that Prowl was so distracted that he ignored the data influx.
“Jazz. You’re late.” Prowl never looked up from the mess of data-pads that were scattered across the TIC’s desk.
“Mech, I ain’t late and you’re trespassing. I never gave you the code for my office.” Jazz shouldn’t call out another mech for a little breaking and entering when he hacked his way into the other officer’s workspace all the time.
“I sent you a message several joors ago, setting this meeting up. You pinged back a positive.” Prowl finally looked up away from the data-pads that he’d managed to open and frowned even deeper at the mech before him.
Jazz was too cool to wince, but it was a near thing. He did remember getting that message, but he hadn’t tried to read it at all. Internal messages were even harder to read than displayed glyphs on a data-pad. He’d auto-pinged a positive to Prowl to let him know that he’d received it – everyone knew to comm. him if they actually needed something, Jazz didn’t know why Prowl couldn’t follow along with everyone else.
“Well mech, you know what it’s like. S’real busy headin’ a whole department and bein’ Third on top a’that.” Jazz’s glossa felt heavy as he slid into his office properly and tried not to wonder what had prompted this little set up. Or why Prowl had taken it upon himself to go through his data-pads on top of it.
“I do. Which is why I made sure to check your schedule and availability before I even submitted this meeting.” Prowl frowned even harder some how – Jazz had no idea a mech’s face could turn that low, but Prowl was managing it and it made the saboteur want to squirm under the scrutiny.
“Well, wouldn’t be very good spec.ops if I just had an itinerary all set n’anyone could track me down.” Jazz tried to brush it off, edging a little deeper into his office. Maybe he could get away with pinging Mirage for back up, his second was always great for a last minute rescue like that.
“As TIC you should be available to the appropriate departments and other officers.” Prowl set the data-pads down and Jazz mistakenly relaxed just a bit.
“Hey, I’m here ain’t I?” Jazz was sure he could salvage this still. Whatever Prowl wanted him for must have been important for the normally meticulous mech to not only schedule a meeting last minute, but to use his override code to get into Jazz’s office.
“True. Late, but true.” Prowl didn’t get up from where he’d seated himself in Jazz’s chair and instead let his optics openly sweep over the saboteur’s frame. Like he was looking for something specific and that made Jazz tense back up. What in Primus’s name was going on here?
“Well, let’s get this meetin’ started then.” Jazz barely managed to swallow back the awkward and uncomfortable laughter that wanted to bubble up under that piercing stare. He didn’t like the way that the other black and white mech was looking at him. Sizing him up and finding him lacking, just like so many before him had as well.
“Perhaps we can begin with you explaining what the meaning of these is?” Prowl didn’t stop staring Jazz down, but he gestured at the data-pads on the desk, wanting to see what the slippery special operations head would do when directly confronted.
“The meaning of what? My data pads? Prowler, if I gotta explain what a data-pad is, maybe I need to take you down to the ol’Hatchet’s lair.” Jazz was only partially joking, but it helped him feel a little more at ease, a little more in control of the situation that he had found himself in.
“Don’t play coy Jazz.” Prowl almost growled at the casual way the saboteur tried to take control of the situation and distract from the very serious issue at hand. “Were you drunk when you tried to write these?”
“Mech, what?” Jazz had the uncomfortable realization that not only had Prowl been looking at his data-pads, but that he had been looking inside of them as well. More than once he’d had someone accuse him of being intoxicated in someway over the state of his writing. ‘That was just Jazz after all. Too fun, too comfortable and carefree. Of course someone like Jazz wouldn’t care if he was sober enough to write.’ As if that was the only plausible explanation as to why his reports looked the way they did.
“I said –”
“I heard you! I just can’t believe you woulda said somethin’ like that!” Jazz snapped back, a little hurt and a lot angry at the accusation. It had been one thing to hear that from teachers and adults growing up, and another to hear it from ranking officers when he’d been a grunt himself. But now? When he wasn’t just an officer but one of the officers?
“Well what else am I supposed to think Jazz?” Prowl had started to get angry himself, his sensor-wings hiking up almost aggressively as he slammed his palms against Jazz’s desk as he stood. “You don’t hand in reports, you don’t bother reading any of the ones you’re given! I can’t even trust that you’ll look over mission plans and follow them! You’re a liability!”
Jazz had a single klik to be stunned by Prowl’s upswing of aggression before what he said sank in and Jazz had to take a physical step back. Not because he was afraid of the SIC, no, but because if he didn’t, Jazz would be in swinging range and striking another officer was a serious offense.
“The fact that your laziness and carelessness has been tolerated this long is mind boggling! How many mecha have been killed because you couldn’t be afted to do something as simple as turn in a report on time?!” Prowl hadn’t intended to start a screaming match with Jazz. Between the two of them, the TIC was usually so unflappable that the tactician hadn’t even considered it a possibility.
“I CAN’T! Not won’t, can’t! I can’t read them!! You think I don’t know? You think I ain’t tried to work around it? You think I don’t want to? I would give anything to be able to read the damned reports without it all blurring into a mess that makes my optics hurt!” Rage burned up hot under Jazz’s armor and it made his servos clench tightly into fists. He could practically taste it from how sour his own field was.
There was a ringing in the air, the silence so tense and heavy that it was oppressive. Prowl stared at him, optics wide and all of the wind ripped out of his sails. Whatever he’d been prepared to hear, that hadn’t been it.
Rage cooled under the weight of shame and familiar despair, leaving Jazz adrift. He’d finally slipped, let his temper get the best of him under Prowl’s unrelenting scrutiny. Everything he had worked so hard to hide, to slip around and it was all ruined. Jazz was ruined.
Jazz was going to be discharged, there was no other way this ended. Prowl would out him to the rest of command and that would be it. The Autobots wouldn’t stand to have someone who couldn’t read as the head of their Special Operations, never mind as Third in Command of the whole faction. The fact that Jazz hadn’t lost an operative in vorns would be irrelevant.
Prowl was so shocked that he forgot to keep a firm of his field and he nearly winced at how awful Jazz’s field felt against his own. Out of everything that he had expected to hear from Jazz, that had not been it. Excuses, jokes, any number of ‘Jazz-ism’ had been on list of possibilities. If it weren’t for the way that the saboteur was clearly falling apart, Prowl would have thought it an act.
“If that’s the case, why haven’t you been seen by a medic for such a serious matter?” It was the only sticking point in all of it, that such a thing could have gone on for so long undetected. Though, Prowl hadn’t thought it anything like not being physically able to read and Prowl had far greater data on Jazz to pull from than any medic did.
“They all said I was makin’ it up. Couldn’t find anythin’ wrong with my optics so I jus’ got labelled as a problem younglin’.” Jazz answered hollowly, unable to muster up the will to do anything but stand there under Prowl’s unforgiving stare. Running wouldn’t save him, not from this. Actually, running would only make it worse, even if it might make him feel a little better in the short-term.
“A medic said that?” Prowl didn’t want to disbelieve Jazz, but that sounded like a far cry from the truth. If it had happened, why not deal with it once Jazz had access to better medical care as an Autobot? Surely Ratchet would have found what was wrong with Jazz – assuming there was something wrong with him.
“Medics. Plural… s’always the same. Not like I could challenge them on it, didn’t exactly have the trainin’ to argue with ‘em.” Jazz would never forget the unforgiving way that they would shine their little pen-lights into his optics, despite the way it made him writhe in pain.
Prowl had his own experienced with medical staff claiming to know his frame better than he did. Between the mild glitch that he suffered from or the burden of his integrated tac-unit, there had often times been where Prowl had tried to counter their claims and been brushed off or outright ignored. Always under the same justification that Prowl didn’t have any coding or training like they had.
“I see…” The worst part was that Prowl did see, but it didn’t change the fact that if Jazz couldn’t read, not wouldn’t, he wasn’t capable of doing his duty as Third in Command. Never mind his role as Head of Special Operations. (But if he couldn’t read, how had he even made it this far??)
“Always managed before this, dunno what you’re makin’ such a big deal about. Who cares if I’m submittin’ the reports if you’re getting the data you need?” It was the last ditch effort to try and appeal to Prowl’s ‘logical’ side. For all that the enlisted insisted that Prowl didn’t have emotions, Jazz knew (and had mounds of mounds of evidence) that he did. The problem with Prowl was that he felt too deeply.
Prowl had a single klik to be stunned by the casual dismissiveness of the saboteur before Jazz’s words actually settled in his processors. There was a second klik where he was so enraged by Jazz’s immaturity that he couldn’t get his vocalizer to engage. But when it did? Well, the Praxian’s temper was legendary for a reason.
“Who cares? Who cares?! I care! Every single mech who’s very life counts on the information you’re supposed to be bringing back cares! How many missions have you botched or not brought back critical information from because you couldn’t do something that younglings can do?!” The coals of rage had been stoked back into an inferno and Prowl was ready to have Jazz taken to the brig at this point. He didn’t know if it was maliciousness or sheer ignorance that had Jazz so blasé about all of this, but Prowl was going to blow a gasket seal over the stress of it.
Jazz jerked back, he didn’t know why he hadn’t expected such an upswing of temper to his petulant muttered words, but he hadn’t. Then again, there was that same assumption that because Jazz didn’t read that he was stupid. As if he couldn’t work around his own inability. As if he didn’t have to compensate for other operatives restrictions, or accommodate other mecha’s glitches or disabilities.
But no, Jazz couldn’t read so he was stupid. Uneducated – what could any mech expect from someone from Polyhex. It made his tanks twist and his intake felt hot. Jazz bit his glossa, pulled on his vorns of training and experience to keep his calm – or at least appear like he did. He hadn’t done a very good job of it so far, but Jazz was a good infiltrator and saboteur, he could handle his life falling apart completely and totally. What was losing everything that mattered one more time in the grand scheme of things?
Jazz’s silence only served to agitate Prowl further. It was only the fact that Jazz’s desk was bolted to the very ground that saved it from being flipped.
“Get out.” Prowl ordered, the anger from the sheer audacity of Jazz had rolled back from a boil but it was still simmering beneath his plating. It wouldn’t do either of them any good to keep talking about this. He could send Jazz on his way and then begin the arduous task of alerting the proper authorities. Like Ratchet. Maybe the medic could do something and this… situation wouldn’t have to be anything more than a hiccup in the greater Autobot chain of command.
“No, absolutely not. You might be SIC, but you can’t kick me outta my own office. I’m still a department head and third in my own right.” Jazz knew it would only come back to bite him in the aft, but he refused to leave his office feeling like a scolded youngling.
Prowl could change that. He could change that with a simple comm, and for a long and terrible moment he almost did. It would serve Jazz right to spend a few nights in the brig for all of this. If Red Alert knew, the Security Director would have a massive glitch out about the risks alone, never mind the potential sabotage that the Decepticons could get away with, simply because Jazz didn’t, couldn’t read the base wide notices.
The Praxian stared the saboteur down, optics narrowed and overbright. He wanted to make sure that Jazz knew he could do that and was currently choosing not to. This had nothing to do with Prowl trying to protect Jazz and everything to do with trying to save himself some paperwork if it turned out that Ratchet could do something about this.
“Fine. This isn’t over though.” Prowl swept himself around the TIC’s desk and it was only when he was right beside him that his sensor wings could feel the minute vibrations coming off of Jazz’s frame. Anger or fear, he didn’t know, but it soured some of his own anger and Prowl hurried himself into the hallway proper.
Their base doors couldn’t slam, but the sensation of it was there as it closed and separated the two black and white mechs. It would be easiest to just comm. Ratchet and get the situation dealt with, but something held Prowl back. If he was wrong and Jazz was right, that there was truly nothing to be done about his ability to read, then Prowl would be restructuring the entire command chain.
This late into the war… that could be disastrous all on its own.
Prowl didn’t have that long of a walk back to his own set of offices, but he was so distracted by what might be wrong with Jazz and the possible fallout of his mystery condition. that he ended up going right past his own door. Thankfully there was no one to see his little slip, but it was a testament to how this had managed to get under his plating.
He settled at his desk and let his tac-unit chew through percentages of Jazz having actually lied to him. The saboteur was good at what he did; it wasn’t entirely impossible that the other mech had managed to lie to him… but the chances were so laughably low that Prowl had to push them aside.
If not for the absolute mess of Jazz’s data pads, Prowl might have been more inclined to believe that it was all a lie to get out of being caught red-servoed. The handful of reports that he’d opened… no, Prowl had seen better work out of actual sparklings. Even if Jazz had been heavily intoxicated, it wouldn’t account for the massive amount of spelling errors, never mind the sentence structure.
Prowl shunted the rest of his work to the side as he pulled up what medical texts he had access to. The joor was late, well past the end of his shift, but the idea that Jazz hadn’t been lying lingered and Prowl needed some sort of explanation as to what might be wrong with Jazz.
He could of course, just turn the matter over to Ratchet, but something about that seemed like a betrayal of sorts. Jazz had covered for him before, when Prowl had suffered a series of light crashes and kept him out of the medbay once when Prowl had begged him not to. Prowl hadn’t been SIC at the time and Jazz hadn’t owed him any such thing, but being allowed to recover in the privacy of his own rooms compared to a medberth had been a balm to his overworked cortex.
The least Prowl could do was look into the matter himself. Not that the Praxian really thought he would find anything that a medic couldn’t have caught, but it wasn’t impossible that in a functionist society that a medic had dismissed a younger Jazz’s symptoms out of hand. (Especially if they couldn’t find something immediately wrong, they may have taken it as a slight against their professional capacity.)
Prowl ended up pouring over medical text after medical text, on the hunt for any hint of what Jazz had described to him. It had sounded horrific and if it hadn’t been for the hot curl of shame in the other mech’s field, Prowl might have thought that Jazz was just acting to get out of the drag of responsibility.
Unfortunately there were dozens of disorders that could lead to the issue that Jazz was suffering from. Some of them were the sort of thing straight out of some of Prowl’s nightmares. Optics were one of the more difficult parts to treat, the sensor heavy and delicate connections to the cortex were the sort of thing that most of their medical staff just didn’t have the training to cover. Those that did often lacked parts or time necessary for such surgeries. Not when most mecha had several ways to ‘see’ the world and function that way.
There were refractive errors, binocular dysfunction and presbyopia – though Prowl didn’t believe it was that last one. There were far older mechanisms out there than Jazz who didn’t struggle the way the black and white mech did. Not to mention the saboteur had said he had struggled as a youngling with these symptoms as well. Jazz already wore a visor, one that was meant to help his optics adjust to the differing levels of lighting. That in and of itself could be indicative of a physical defect, then again, a medic should have been able to find such an issue if there was one.
Of course there were underlying, far worse conditions as well. Retinopathy or optical degeneration leading to blindness was the one that Prowl was the most concerned about, if Jazz lost his vision entirely… It wouldn’t mean the end of the saboteur’s role among the Autobots, but it would be the end of any field work for Jazz. Their special operatives needed to be able to see the minute details of the information they were trying to recover. A tiny detail could mean the difference between life and death, and not just for them, but for the mecha like Prowl who relied on what was brought back to them.
Though… There was one condition that he kept going back to that his tac-unit continued to linger on. One that Prowl hoped for could see. It fit the descriptions that Jazz had given him, though most of these issues did as well, however… having seen the absolute mess that had been the reports that Jazz had written, Prowl was inclined to listen to the tac-unit.
Dyslexia seemed to cover a large swatch of reading and writing issues, as well it had a scale of severity. Jazz’s seemed to be the more extreme end of that, but if that was what was wrong…
Prowl leaned back in his seat, steepling his digits together as he processed over what he’d read. It seemed to have been a more common disorder before the fall of society, given that there were several programs and suggestions available to combat the issue. If that was the case, why would Jazz hide it? Why struggle when there were aids and work arounds?
The only reason Prowl could think of was the pressure that was put on mecha who were ‘defective’. A pressure that Prowl himself knew all too well. While his glitch wasn’t severe, it was something that he had been judged for countless time. Prowl could empathize with Jazz’s situation, but he didn’t understand why Jazz wouldn’t go looking for solutions himself.
Almost immediately, Prowl felt like a moron. He had found the information that would help Jazz, but it was all written documents. Documents that Jazz would have never been able to read himself unassisted. How was anyone who suffered from the disorder supposed to find help when it was all written, and reading was in and of itself, one of the issues?
It was deeply inaccessible and Prowl hated the inefficiency of it all. Of course a properly trained medic could help, but that would require a mech to be vulnerable and risk being labeled a problem. That was a risk that a mech like Jazz would never take.
Instead he had struggled, been labeled lazy and uncaring, stupid, when Jazz was anything but.
Prowl had seen how much Jazz cared, not just about his own operatives, but the Autobot faction as a whole. Jazz gave his whole spark to the cause, to making sure that every mecha felt like they were not only welcome amongst the Autobots, but that they were cared for.
A level of love that Jazz hadn’t gotten in return.
It was the sort of thing that Prowl had to fix. Better, it was something that he could fix. (Though it would be best if Jazz confessed to Ratchet as well, just in case the medic had more resources than the ones Prowl had found.) It was easy enough to load up a data-pad with everything that he had found, the studies on dyslexia, as well as the differing aids to assist. It was just as easy to requisition a screen cover and modify it the way that he had seen in the list of aids.
Even easier was to load the programs and run them so that when Jazz had the data-pad, there would be no struggle to set up any of the settings. A larger, evenly spaced font with soft but distinctive glyphs. It was the sort of flair that Prowl hated in a report, but it would be easy enough to convert for himself. Especially when it wasn’t because something was trying to be aesthetic, but rather an adaptation.
Hopefully this would make up for his mis-step earlier in the orn.
Prowl stood and nearly groaned as his frame reminded him that he had lost more time than he’d intended on his research. Stiff and awkward, he stretched out his sensor-wings and the rest of his frame. As much as he wanted to charge back off to Jazz and show him what he had found, he doubted that Jazz would appreciate being accosted a second time in the same orn. (Especially when that first time had been so harrowing.)
Factoring in the lateness of the orn, it would be better to approach Jazz the following orn, when both of them had rested and had time to settle. More so in Jazz’s case that Prowl – his temper was sharp but fleeting.
Yes, that would be the best plan of action, given everything that had happened. Rest for both of them and then in the morning, Prowl could confront Jazz once more and give him what he had found. (And if that proved to not help, he would be already there to march Jazz down to the medbay to be seen. As much as it pained Prowl to admit, Jazz not being able to perform his ‘duller’ duties was a serious breach.)
When he rose in the morning, it took far more effort than Prowl was comfortable admitting to, to track Jazz down. He didn’t think the saboteur was actively hiding from him, but Jazz kept such odd hours and even odder company that Prowl couldn’t narrow down where the TIC was.
Of course he could have cheated and asked for a base update, but it was just as likely that Jazz had asked to be alerted if anyone of rank was actively looking for him. It would be a risk and Prowl didn’t want the Polyhexan getting the wrong idea – especially when he couldn’t just message him and reassure him that what he wanted was innocent.
Prowl tried to make his wanderings look casual, but it was difficult. He wasn’t a mech given to such frivolities and usually kept a fairly strict routine. More than one enlisted Autobot got wide opticked when they saw him prowling about and did an about-face. It made Prowl’s coding go haywire, wanting to track them down and find out why they were running – only guilty mecha ran from Enforcers officers.
Fortunately for the enlisted, or unfortunately for Prowl, the tactician had more pressing matters to attend to. While it took Prowl nearly an entire joor (he did end up cross referencing the base map and letting his tac-unit pump out probabilaties), but he found Jazz.
In the one place Prowl hadn’t thought to check initially, which was borderline stupid on his part, but Jazz’s habsuite was where the saboteur had holed up. He was too used to carefree and happy Jazz, forever wandering the base and making a nuisance of himself that Prowl hadn’t factored in how upset and distraught the TIC had been when they had finally parted ways the night before.
Finally presented with his quarry, Prowl hesitated at the door for Jazz’s quarters. He could approach this one of two ways. Either he could override the door and not give the saboteur an option, or he could knock and hope that Jazz would answer.
Disrespecting Jazz’s privacy further wouldn’t sit well, not after the fiasco of the night before. Which really only left the latter option for Prowl to take.
Prowl took a moment to resettle his plating before he knocked. A klik later he pinged Jazz as well – best not to surprise him as to who was at his door. He genuinely wanted to help Jazz and putting his pede into the situation because he rushed wouldn’t help either of them.
Eons later (half a breem at best), Jazz pinged him back and the door unlocked, sliding back to reveal a not quite dishevelled looking Jazz. While it wasn’t physically possible for their plating to be rumpled, Jazz carried the air of someone who had just rolled out of the berth and was struggling to be online.
“Jazz.” Prowl cleared his intake and folded his arms behind himself, just underneath his wings to hide the fact that he wanted to fidget. It seemed that Jazz had not had the best of rests, if he had recharged at all.
“Prowl.” Jazz’s voice was flat, it lacked the usual, almost lyrical tone that his vocalizer normally carried. He looked up the short distance to Prowl’s face-plates and whatever he saw there made him slump and step back to let the Praxian in.
Prowl wasn’t sure he liked that any better than Jazz’s appearance, but it got him what he wanted and he stepped into the room. It was exactly as disorganized and loud as he would have expected of a mech with a personality like Jazz.
“This is for you.” Always better to cut to the chase, in Prowl’s opinion. He pulled the loaded data-pad from his sub-space and held it out to the other mech. With a flick of his thumb it onlined, ready and accessible.
“What’s this?” Jazz was a bit leery, he had expected discharge papers or at very least a court-martial of some level. Prowl was too by the books to do that without a tribunal though. If this was a notice to appear, it shouldn’t be given to him by the Praxian, it should have had to go through an intermediary instead.
“I have taken the time to read up on the disorder you described and have found several aids to help with dyslexia. While I’m not sure which might best help you, I have assembled all of them and taken the time to set up this data-pad with them already loaded so that you may hopefully be able to read and intake the provided information. As well, there are screen covers and spacers that I have requisitioned to assist if these adaptations aren’t quite enough.” Prowl pushed the afore mentioned pad towards Jazz, already on so the saboteur could see. (Which had nothing to do with Prowl wanting to verify that this was the issue that had been plaguing Jazz for his entire functioning.)
“What?” The word croaked out of Jazz before he could stop it as he stared at the data-pad that Prowl had offered him. It seemed so unreal and impossible that there was something that could help with his issues. The glyph’s were large and softer, spaced out to the point that even though they were still moving, he could make out the individual words despite that.
“I said –”
“Mech, I heard ya, I just… what? No one ever tried to help an’ you just… you figured it out and found somethin’ to help? Jus’ like that?” Jazz swallowed thickly as he turned his helm away to try and hide the way that tears were welling up along the corners of his hidden optics.
“Oh… oh. Jazz. I’m sorry that no one helped before, and… I apologize that I only added to that strain and frustration as well. I should have given you time to explain, should have been more understanding.” Prowl could feel the way Jazz’s field rioted with a mess of emotions. So much so that Prowl knew he had to act, lest the other actually fall apart.
Prowl stepped closer, reaching for Jazz’s shoulder as he did so and guided the smaller mech against himself. As much as the enlisted personnel whispered about Prowl being a sparkless drone, Prowl could in fact comfort someone. (Especially someone as wonderful as Jazz.) It should have been awkward, it wasn’t like they were friends, but something about the vulnerability before him softened Prowl.
Jazz all but fell against him and into the hug, tightening his arms beneath Prowl’s sensor wings until Prowl was holding him so tightly his plating creaked. It was the sort of crushing pressure that Jazz needed but never asked for. He never asked for much of anything. Vulnerability had always been thrown back in his face and he had learned the hard way not to actually trust anyone.
Prowl had done more for him with a simple data-pad than life long friends had and it was enough for the dam to break. The tears fell faster and Jazz struggled to control the hitch in his vocalizer while he tried to vent.
Prowl let him cry too, didn’t try and shush him, didn’t tell him he was being dramatic or anything disparaging at all. Jazz couldn’t keep himself together and it should have been embarrassing for a mech his age, but somehow it wasn’t.
Prowl was steady and wrapped his field around Jazz’s in pure comfort, just letting him get the lifetime of suffering and struggle out until there was nothing left.
Eventually the tears stopped and Jazz’s field stabilized, though it was a bit longer before the saboteur released his clutching hold on Prowl. Prowl allowed it, aware that this had been a rather turmoiled orn for the other mech. He couldn’t imagine the struggles that Jazz must have gone through his entire functioning because of all of this.
Jazz chuckled weakly as he stepped back and rubbed the coolant away that stained his cheek-plates. He tried to cover up how wobbly he still felt, though he was sure it wouldn’t work on the Praxian – he was the sort to try regardless. “Sorry ‘bout that, not sure where that all came from.”
Prowl allowed Jazz a brief moment to compose himself before he spoke up. “Having had my own… struggles with accommodations before, I just wanted to let you know that there could be more available that I am unaware of. As I am not a medic, I may not have had access to all of the potential aids that could be out there. It’s not a ‘magic’ fix by any means, and you will undoubtedly need to find what works best for you, but it should be a good start.”
For some reason that made Jazz stiffen back up, rather than relax further and Prowl wracked his cortex to figure out the issue might be now. Surely there wasn’t something else that Jazz might be hiding on top of his dyslexia?
“Awww, mech this’ll be more than good enough, no need to involve ol’Hatchet. I can definitely do all’a those reports and read yers and it’ll be fine.” Jazz chuckled again, but it was awkward and almost forced now. Not even Prowl would be fooled by it, his frame-language was all wrong and his field wasn’t any better. Once more he was betrayed by the sour tang of fear in it, mixed with an almost despondent acceptance.
“I’m sure it will help a great deal…” Prowl did his best to reassure the other, though he didn’t know where this new upset and panic was coming from… unless it wasn’t dyslexia? That didn’t track with Jazz’s prior emotions though, or the previous breakdown. Jazz had felt down right shocked but wonderous about the data-pad that the saboteur was still clutching. Why hold onto it if it didn’t help?
“But it ain’t a magic fix of anythin’, you said it yourself.” Jazz felt a little light-helmed from it all and he couldn’t stop himself from staring down at the data-pad that Prowl had given him. It certainly felt like it was a magical fix to all of his problems. If he could read the reports–even if it took him longer than it would anyone else–he could probably write them just as easily. So he should be safe… but that didn’t mean the rest of High Command would agree with him. Prowl already clearly didn’t. Red Alert certainly wouldn’t.
“No, such things rarely are. I take anticonvulsants to help with my glitch, but that doesn’t stop all of them from happening. That also doesn’t mean that I ignore medical aid when it’s needed. You could –”
“No, I get it! I do. I jus’… if I could resign or step back ‘nstead of being demoted that would be. Better.” Jazz cut Prowl off despite the way he struggled to get the words out, to save his career, his dwindling hope – any of it. “I can mentor Mirage, he’s the one who always helped with my reports before anyway. M’sure it would be fine…”
“Jazz.” Prowl was starting to feel exasperated by how Jazz seemed to be doing his best to either misunderstand him or put words in his intake.
Jazz went quiet and small and that was so much worse than when Prowl had thought he was being immature and dismissive.
“Jazz.” Prowl tried again and did his best to show the saboteur that he had no intention of demoting him. (Not unless it was necessary, and he really hoped that it wouldn’t be. That would be a disaster for the war-front and morale.)
“Prowl… you ain’t gotta coat it in coolant for me.” Jazz knew he should have been trying to be more proud in the face of all this, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not after his embarrassing little breakdown. He felt emotionally wrung out and exhausted in a way that usually only the most challenging of missions left him.
“If you would just let me explain.” Prowl was doing his best to stay level-helmed, but this was getting ridiculous. “Currently I see no reason to demote you or remove you from the command structure. However! As I said before, Ratchet will undoubtedly have resources that I do not have access for. From what I was able to read up on, this disorder is usually brought on by a wiring issue, but again, Ratchet, our very well trained CMO should have more information.”
A wiring issue that was extremely difficult to track down and ultimately not worth the risk of processor surgery when there were perfectly viable work arounds. Of course with it being an internal issue and not an physical one, that certainly would explain why Jazz was surprised by his comm. message to meet with him the orn prior.
Oh. Oh. If it was a wiring issue, a wiring issue that prevented Jazz from reading all glyph and lettering. Including the ones internally.
Ratchet was going to have a melt down about this, Prowl realized with a start. If Jazz couldn’t read the comm messages he was sent, could he even read his own HUD? It was unlikely and that suddenly had much darker connotations to why Jazz was forever putting off going to the medbay despite being greiviously injured.
Before Jazz could speak up to argue with him or whatever nonsense he might think up next, Prowl barreled forward. “In case you have forgotten, it is against Autobot Regulations to discriminate based on caste, function or physical state. I stand by my request for you to be seen by Ratchet, as well… I think it would help you and everyone in High Command if they knew. If you need further assistance, then that can be looked at as well.”
Jazz felt like his entire world had been upended. Not only had Prowl listened to him, he had somehow figured out what was wrong with him, had found solutions, and now wasn’t even going to have him discharged? What sort of fevered death dream was this? Things this good just didn’t happen to Jazz.
A warm servo settled on his shoulder and Jazz didn’t startle like a green recruit gazed up at Prowl to find him looking intently at Jazz. It was… a lot, to be the sole focus of that intensity. He could see why recruits and the enlisted cracked under those severe optics.
“We’ll get through this, together. I’m here to help. I can offer remedial lessons if you find yourself struggling with the reports, and I can go with you to see Ratchet if you truly fear that there could be retaliation from opening up to him.” If this didn’t sink into Jazz, Prowl was going to haul him down to the medbay himself, just to make sure that the saboteur didn’t have a wire loose somewhere.
“…okay.” It was hard for Jazz to let himself be vulnerable enough to agree, but there wasn’t exactly other options for him at this point. If he didn’t go, Prowl would just rat him out anyway and that wouldn’t be a good look for a mech of his position.
“It’s still early, if we go now the medbay will be quiet.” Prowl gave Jazz’s shoulder a supportive squeeze before he let go and gave the other a little bit of space. He didn’t want to put too much pressure on him, but it did need to be seen to. (Realistically, the sooner Jazz could get properly assessed, the sooner he could have accommodations that were built for him and not just generic ones.)
That was Prowl for ‘I don’t trust you to follow through with this’ and if Jazz wasn’t the wily Head of Special Operations, he might almost be insulted. As it was, he could only nod along – not being trusted after hiding such a monumental liability was fair. Hurtful, but fair.
“Yeah, best jus’ get it over with.” Jazz forced himself to smile at Prowl and girded his spark against what was to come.
A deca-cycle had passed before Prowl had realized it since he had found out the truth about Jazz. The difference between the mech before their little… exchange and now was stark. Reports weren’t always on time, but they were there. Shorter perhaps than what was appropriate, but Prowl could see in each one how Jazz was becoming more confident, more comfortable.
It was the sort of thing that made his spark feel light and his frame warm. Prowl loved when he was able to help others and being able to see just how much he had helped Jazz truly was it’s own reward. Especially when it mean that Jazz smiled more at him, wide and genuinely.
That smile was enough that Prowl found himself actively seeking the other’s company when their paths crossed – like now. As he entered the commissary his optics were quick to slide over to said Polyhexan, who was sitting at a table with his modified data-pad and a little tray of rust sticks.
“Needed a change of scenery for your reports?” Prowl commented but didn’t settle next to Jazz just yet. He didn’t want to interrupt if Jazz was actually working, the saboteur was still too used to brushing off doing his reports that Jazz was a bit bad for letting himself get distracted.
“Hmmm?” Jazz looked up from where he had slid the screen cover down just a bit and refocused on Prowl and what the tactician had said.
“Oh! Nah, I finished that up earlier. Now I’m jus’ readin’ a book. Y’know, fer fun. Since I can do that now thanks to you.” Jazz admitted, a little shyly. “I’ve really been enjoyin’ it so far.”
Prowl had the sudden realization that he hadn’t just helped Jazz be able to do his work and keep his position. He had unintentionally opened up the world for Jazz. It made his spark feel too full for his chest plates and he knew it was in his field too but couldn’t bring himself to feel embarrassed for such emotions.
“I’m glad.” Prowl truly was and he was going to let that carry him for quartex to come. He left him reluctantly to get some fuel himself and decided that perhaps it would be better to do the rest of his work in good company than alone in his office.
If there was a shy and deeper mingle of their fields when Prowl came back with his own snacks to sit and read with Jazz… well, that was Prowl’s business and no one else’s.