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tfic_contest2010-09-12 10:57 am
eerian_sadow) wrote in tfic_contest2010-09-12 10:57 am
Entry tags:
August Contest Entry #4 pt. 1
Title: Spark Deep
Rating: R
Universe: G1
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
asher119
Pairing: Jazz/Prowl
Word Count: 16,410
That summer, electrical storms ravaged and burned over Cybertron, and the whole world fell apart all around them. The skies fell faster than the buildings, and all the night was illuminated with the burning of a thousand lives. Scratches of lightning tore across the planet, and Prowl’s spark resounded with the devastation of his entire life. That summer, Jazz pressed the first kiss into Prowl’s nervous lips, and two sparks found each other in resonance outside the Matrix. That summer, the whole world fell apart, and Jazz was sent to assassinate Prowl.
At the time, Prowl worked in the Council Chambers in Iacon, directly supporting the Praxian Senator as his personal and legislative aide. His world was small, his friends few, and though he worked in the grandest and most opulent seat of power in the entire planet, Prowl’s life was a study of modest, humble practices. He lived in a simple flat in a quiet sector of the city, and his daily purpose was found within the routines of his day and the fulfillment of his duties. He lived to serve others, and the quiet fulfillment of tasks and operations behind the scenes was where his niche was found. He was the definition of reliable, a study in dependability. He was the best attaché in the entire Council, and Senator Emberwire knew it. He counted himself lucky every single cycle.
Jazz was a Section Leader within the Autobot Black Operations units, personally commanding Section Six. Technically, their three-mech team didn’t exist, and he didn’t report to his Column Commander, Orion Pax. Still, there were lots of things he technically didn’t do, things they could never speak of, and his assignment to assassinate Prowl was just one of those many, many things. Orion Pax’s side assignment, a private request made entirely off-channels, was another thing Jazz could never technically admit to ever doing.
His mission to eliminate Prowl had come from the top, however, and a long series of intelligence gathering operations had narrowed the dragnet around an infiltrator and mole at the Council Chambers. One of their own, one of their insiders within the Chambers itself, was sending detailed, classified and highly sensitive information out to the dissident movement in the South. Troop movements, military deployments, supply shipments, technical specifications, all of it was up for grabs, and much of it had been smuggled out from Iacon only to turn up in the slums and dregs of the Southern city-states, banding together and turning against their Northern brethren. The grumbles of a few dissidents had turned to an angry rumble, which quickly spread and grew into a conflagration of bitter enmity. Insurrection began, and Iacon sent the full power of its mighty army, led by Commander Megatron, to quell the unrest. Insurgency followed on the heels of the military crackdown, and the rage exploded. Communiqués of rebellion, revolution and secession filtered out from beneath the totalitarian blockade sweeping the southern half of the planet. Calls for help, for aide and for a mechs to join their struggle in arms blazed over underground wires and radios.
The bitter grumbles of a few unhappy mechs toward unpopular policies of the Iacon elite had sparked a riotous upwelling of unchecked rage, bursting and tearing across the entire planet. Unease filled every breath, and the anticipation of change, whether asked for or not, was hanging onto every word. It was an uneasy time to be a Cybertronian, at the beginning of one of their hottest summers.
And, Jazz thought ruefully as he settled himself into his new undercover role within Iacon’s elite living sector, it was an uneasy time to be his prey.
Prowl had had a long and trying day at the Council, and by the time it was finally finished, he was ready for a relaxing break. Most times, he spent his few, extremely punctual breaks in the central Iacon Sculpture Garden, but at the end of exceptionally difficult days, Prowl headed to the oil bar only a few blocks from the Council. It was a downtown affair, and it attracted a mixed clientele: loud, boisterous business mechs, seemingly always celebrating at the end of their days, laboring mechs, come for the specials on oil and the cool atmosphere, and staying well away from the business mechs, and the scattered handfuls of traveling, visiting and bar hopping mechs out for a cool drink to quench their tanks or energize their systems. As the night wore on, the crowds shifted, the oil grew heavier, the energon of a higher grade, and the energy positively crackled throughout the entire bar.
Prowl never stayed that long. He had one drink, nursing it slowly as he watched the mechs around him, saw the outward expressions of their different lives, their communications and simple connections they made with the mechs and friends surrounding them, and then slipped out silently to head to his quiet, tidy, lonely home. No one ever spoke to him. No one ever noticed him. Not even the bartender spared him a word while serving him his drink.
When Jazz, who had been observing Prowl for a full orn, stepped into the bar, everything seemed to pause for a long, full astrosecond. It was long enough for Prowl to notice, long enough for him to look up from his drink, and long enough for his optics to brighten with surprise, intrigue, and embarrassment. He lowered his helm quickly, and the raucous noise of the bar resumed, as if there had never been a pause. Prowl fidgeted at his seat at the bar, and Jazz smirked coldly as he maneuvered himself into the shadowy corners.
Jazz had spent an orn following Prowl, learning his every move, watching his every action, memorizing his every routine. For a spy, for an agent of the rebellion and the insurrection, Prowl lived a quiet, monotonous life. His routine was as ingrained as his datachips, and Jazz was almost surprised there weren’t indentations of footfalls leading from Prowl’s flat to the Council Chambers and back again. It was almost as boring observing Prowl’s life and routine as it must be to live it, Jazz thought after only the second cycle. Still, he had seen mechs like Prowl time and time again: bored, solitary, desperate figures, yearning for meaning and fulfillment within their lives, willing to sell themselves to the first person to give an electron about their existence. He wondered what Prowl’s price had been, to sell out everything he claimed to work for, every mech he claimed to support and uphold.
Jazz’s plan was to offer Prowl a better price, a better place to turn to, and once their suspicions and intelligence were confirmed, Jazz’s duty was to eliminate the threat. Eliminate Prowl.
Jazz watched and waited as a group of rowdy mechs jostled back and forth at the bar next to Prowl, until one of them stumbled backward and bumped into the lone doorwinger hunched over his drink. Prowl’s doorwings flared as he fought to balance himself, and the wrestling mechs pushed themselves away from Prowl with only the faintest of mumbled apologies. Prowl’s doorwings fluttered momentarily as he righted himself on his barstool, and Jazz chose that moment to make his move. He sauntered forward, resting himself against the bar at the vacant space on the opposite side of Prowl. At first, he ignored Prowl entirely, catching the optics of the bartender with a roguish sort of arrogant grin.
“Heya, darlin’” Jazz drawled. “Got anythin’ with a higher octane?” His optics shone behind his visor as he turned up his not inconsiderable charm.
The bar mech smirked back, raking his gaze over Jazz’s body. “I might. Got some Seeker fuel I could fix you up with.”
“Mmmm, that sounds ‘bout right,” Jazz smiled, nodding. “But what’s it gonna cost me?”
The bartender didn’t answer, merely gave Jazz another full body leer and turned away to grab the far more potent fuel mixture. Jazz smirked behind the bartender’s back, pulling himself upright to stand next to Prowl. He made sure to squeeze himself just barely too close, but not close enough to touch. Jazz could feel Prowl growing stiff at his side and could sense the tense vibrations of his doorwings held low along his backplating.
When the bartender returned, he slid the Seeker fuel across the bar top toward Jazz and waved away his attempts to pull out a credit chit with a small smile of his own. “Just don’t cause any trouble,” the bartender chuckled. “We haven’t’ seen a mech like you here in a long while.” He punctuated the meaning behind his words with another long, lingering look over Jazz’s body.
Jazz smirked and flicked his wrist, subspacing his credit datacard in a whirl. Next to him, Prowl shifted slightly away from Jazz’s encroaching presence. His optics were fixed to his drink, staring intently at the bar top and the liquid inside.
Jazz peered down at his target. Prowl was so nervous, so obsequious, so unexceptionally boring. This would be an easy, Primusly too easy, assignment. Best to get it over with. Plastering his best and most seductively flirtatious look upon his face, Jazz turned to face Prowl beside him, leaning causally against the bar top. “Why, ‘ello there, mech,” he drawled slowly, letting the honeyed baritone of his outlander accent slip into his speech. It always helped make him different.
Prowl froze, every gear and motion stopping at once. His mouth dropped open, freezing in a tiny “o,” and Jazz distinctly had the impression of a petrorabbit trying to evade his predator by standing perfectly still cross his processor. Too slagging easy. “You with anyone here?”
Prowl’s optics finally darted toward Jazz, quickly seizing up what he had already taken full notice of when Jazz stepped into the bar. His gaze brightened, and he turned instantly back to his drink. “Hello,” he replied softly, being polite. “I’m just having a drink,” he added, almost breathless.
“All by your lonesome?” Jazz’s helm tiled to the side, flopping almost to his shoulder in the image of concern and care. His optics burned into Prowl’s profile, studying his ever facial tic from behind his visor.
Prowl flinched minutely at Jazz’s words. “If you’re expecting someone, I can move. You can have the seat.” Prowl made to stand, already halfway out of his chair and leaving his drink behind before Jazz could react.
“Whoa!” Jazz said, laughing. “I was just askin’, that’s all! Sit down, mech!” He gestured for Prowl to sit once more, smiling and holding out the barstool for him. “I’m here all on m’ lonesome too, so we can drink together. How’s that sound?”
If Prowl’s facial reaction was anything to go by, it sounded absolutely awful to him. His optics flashed as his face blanched, and he slowly sank down into his seat with a shaky inhale. His fingers reached for his drink tentatively, pulling it closer to his body protectively.
“So, what’s your name?” Jazz perched himself on the stool next to Prowl, turning his body to face him as he rested one of his pedes on the lower rung of Prowl’s stool. His leg dangled between them, effectively trapping Prowl and further encroaching into his personal space. Jazz noticed Prowl eyeing his pede and leg, and he scooted fractionally away from the invasion as subtly as he could.
Prowl swallowed before he answered, and he only briefly met Jazz’s gaze. “Prowl,” he said softly, turning to look back down.
“Prowl…” Jazz mouthed, rolling the name around his mouth and letting his accent play with the simple designation. He said it as if he hadn’t already had a dozen briefings on the mech before him, as if he were just meeting him, and as if he wanted to know his name. Finally, he cocked his helm once more, smiling that sly smile of his, the one that always undid mechs. “M’name is Sol.” He let his smile linger, playing on the edges of his lips.
Prowl’s optics flicked sideways, raking over Jazz’s body once more before rising to meet Jazz’s gaze. “Sol?” he asked. It was the most he’d ever truly looked at Jazz, and it was only a few seconds. “You must enjoy irony.” Prowl shifted back to his drink.
Surprised, Jazz grinned truly. He hadn’t expected Prowl to actually display a depth of intelligence or nuanced humor. Most mechs, faced with Jazz’s charm, showed nothing of the sort, and Jazz had already decided Prowl was an unsophisticated simpleton, eager for adulation and praise. Humor was a product of the intelligent processor, and he doubted Prowl possessed one. Glancing down over his deeply dark paintjob, all black lines and angles wrapped with gold and midnight accents, Jazz began to nod slowly, chuckling. “Well, ya caught me there. That I do.” He winked from behind his visor at Prowl. “What are ya drinking?”
Prowl glanced sideways once more, seemingly surprised at every new question. “Just a simple midgrade brew,” he began softly.
“Oh, c’mon on!” Jazz goaded, leaning almost close enough to touch. “Let loose! Here!” Jazz reached out, pouring a healthy portion of his Seekergrade energon into Prowl’s midgrade. It fizzled, plopping and mixing together as the energies crackled and coalesced.
“No!” Prowl tried to stop Jazz’s reach, but he watched helplessly as Jazz completed his healthy dosing of the ultra refined high octane fuel. Grimacing, Prowl’s doorwings slumped. “Thanks,” he mumbled, peering down into his cube worriedly.
“No problem, Prowl!” Jazz grinned as he took a quick swig from his now nearly-empty cube. He watched Prowl over the top of the cube before he lowered it back to the bar top. “So, whatta ya do, Prowl?”
Again, that surprised look from Prowl, that cautious glance Jazz’s way. His lips pressed together, and his optics slowly dragged themselves to meet Jazz’s own. He shrugged self-deprecatingly. “I’m just a personal aide. That’s all.”
Jazz nodded, musing aloud. “Well, only powerful and interesting mechs have personal aide’s,” he teased.
Finally, Prowl cracked a small, timid smile. “I work for a good mech,” he said softly. His optics shifted, and he looked away, staring out over the bar.
Jazz frowned. He hadn’t expected shyness, nor closed-mouthedness or clamming up. He’d expected Prowl to be near bursting to talk about his accomplishments, his work, his personal professionalism and all the perceived ways he was slighted or underappreciated. This feint of modesty was most unexpected, and for a moment, Jazz was puzzled. “Huh,
he grunted. “Well, that’s good. You like your job.” He paused, leaving Prowl an opening to seize. Nothing. “Well, wanna know what I do?” He pushed a teasing lilt into his voice.
Silence. Jazz let it span almost to the limits of discomfort before he spoke again. Prowl’s doorwings were fidgeting, and he could see the faintest depression around his lip, as if he were biting it on the inside of his mouth. “I’m a songwriter,” Jazz offered, leaning close, as if sharing a secret. He had perfected his cover over the years, and had chosen a cover profession that was both interesting to him and that he could live within as well as being a conversation starter and a point of intrigue for nearly every mech he met.
Every mech, it seemed, saved Prowl. Prowl turned halfway toward him, a polite expression of acknowledgement on his face, and nodded once. “That’s nice,” he said quickly, turning back forward.
“Well, don’t you want to know what songs I’ve written?” Jazz teased. Inside, he was growing concerned.
Prowl shrugged. “I wouldn’t know them.” He made to take a sip from his drink, but stopped, swallowing before he lifted the cube as he remembered Jazz’s addition to his cube.
“Why not?”
Prowl finally turned back to Jazz. “I’m tone deaf,” he said simply. This time, he held Jazz’s gaze. “My audials have never been properly tuned to differentiate between the sensitive notes and tones that comprise the musical range. My audial circuits are used for information processing. Music was… never necessary.” Prowl trailed off with a small shrug.
Jazz stared, not bothering to hide his shocked and slightly disturbed expression. “Well… no, music is never necessary, Prowl,” he drawled slowly. “But it’s… slag, it’s life. It’s livin.’ It’s… emotions and power and feelin.’ It’s how mechs can express themselves, even if they are just listening!”
Prowl shrugged, and dimly, Jazz realized that Prowl was still staring at him and hadn’t looked away. “I wouldn’t know.”
Frowning, Jazz set down his cube and reached across the divide between them, resting his hands on the bar top before Prowl. “Look, it’s not all about musical notes. There’s beats too, and you don’t have to hear those. You can feel ‘em.” Jazz began a soft drumming pattern, beating his hands against the bar top softly, drumming out a basic rhythm for Prowl. “Hear it? It’s motion and music, but not notes. Now, change it up-“ Jazz sped his hands up, shifting the pattern to a faster, wild tempo. “And your mood changes. Slow it down –“ Again, Jazz slowed his pace, and his expression turned soft, almost sensual. “And something totally different. See?”
Prowl was staring, optics bright and overly wide as he leaned well away from Jazz, nearly half off his stool. He nodded stiffly, his gaze darting from Jazz’s face to his hands and back again. “Why are you talking to me?” Prowl finally asked, incredulity straining his voice.
Jazz grimaced, but forced it to turn to a smile as he dragged himself back to his own stool. “Here, let’s drink!” he said, grabbing for his cube. This wasn’t going at all how he planned. “To new friends!” He clinked his cube against Prowl’s, maneuvering his hand and arm to get into Prowl’s tense and nervous stance before taking another healthy swig of his fuel. Prowl, being polite, smiled weakly and followed suit. He wouldn’t refuse the gesture.
The first taste of the powerful fuel against his glossa and the feel of the electricity burning its way down his throat and lines sent Prowl into a spasm of coughs and violent hacking. He dropped his cube to the bar quickly, pushing it away as he tried to stop the powerful fuel on its slow burn down to his internals. Jazz reached out, nearly touching him in pretend comfort, but Prowl waved him off with an unsteady arm.
Finally after he was done hacking out his vocalizer and his vents, Prowl stood shakily. “Thank you, Sol,” he choked out, his voice rough. “I’m leaving. I’m going to go…. It was… a pleasure meeting you,” he lied.
“Wait-“ Jazz tried, standing after Prowl.
“Have a good time in Iacon,” Prowl said, slipping backward into the crowd. “You’ll meet plenty of mechs, I’m sure.” His gaze darted around once again, and with a painful smile of apology for everything that Prowl was, he slipped backward into the mess of mechs and disappeared. Jazz, springing from his barstool to try to chase him down, lost the smaller doorwinger amongst the crush of mechs that had begun flooding in for the late cycle entertainment. Prowl, he realized with a sinking feeling, was gone, and he’d accomplished nothing at all.
Jazz frowned, his mood turning sour, and collapsed back into his bar stool. Prowl’s cube sat untouched on the bar top, holding the majority of his Seeker fuel. Jazz snatched it, dragging it close, and slammed back the full measure of the cube in one long swallow.
-
Prowl sighed heavily, letting his helm fall back as his shoulders slumped. He hadn’t been able to initiate recharge the night before at all. Thoughts of Sol, the dark, mysterious mech who had deigned to talk to him at the bar clouded his circuits for half the offcycle. His routine of calm normality had been shattered, and Prowl was still trying to puzzle through just why the mech, who could have spoken to any one, had any one, had chosen to sit next to Prowl. It was a new, entirely foreign experience.
To compound his feelings of exhaustion, the morning at the Council had been near-frantically busy. Senator Emberwire was trying to bridge back channel communications with the Senators of the Southern city states that were still hoping for a political resolution. Everything the Senator was doing, though, was highly classified, and he relied on Prowl to ensure everything was in order. Comms channels, protocols, back channel meetings, sensitive communiqués and discrete messages brokered through the different offices and attaches that Prowl had worked with for years were consuming his workday.
Now though, it was the midcycle break, and Prowl had escaped the confines of the Chambers for the Central Gardens. The sculptures and natural growth of metallic spires were spread out in the gardens amidst small fountains and streams of trickling ionized water. The flowing water cooled the air, and the landscape was serene enough to tease the few wild petrorabbits, turbohawks and motormoles out of hiding to lap at the water’s edge. Prowl brought iron filings with him to scatter for the wildlife whenever he escaped from the Chambers. He scattered some now, a small smile finally breaking over his tired faceplates as a small family of turbohawks swept down from above to pluck at the filings.
For the moment, all the stress of the day, and the night before, vanished.
“Well, well, well,” A cheery voice called from behind the sculptures sheltering Prowl from the bulk of the gardens. “Look who I happen to run into!” Jazz’s rich tones flowed warmly as he stepped around the sculptures, revealing himself with a sly grin.
Prowl froze, his optics widening. He’d fervently hoped to never, ever see this mech again. He was too much, and Prowl didn’t know how to deal with that kind of vibrancy. His doorwings flew upwards, peaking behind his backplates.
Jazz slid closer to Prowl, relaxation and ease spilling from his deceptively happy saunter. “How’s ‘aiding’ going today?”
“What are you doing here?”
Shrugging, Jazz leaned up against the sculpture, watching the turbohawks finish off Prowl’s iron filings. “It’s recommended on the list of sights to see for new visitors to Iacon.”
Prowl’s doorwings fluttered as his hands flexed and clenched. He tried to ignore Jazz’s presence, but the anxiety continued to build within him. This mech was a disturbance to his routine, an unasked for interruption, and the cascades of emotional flashes, the unasked for fleeting feelings that sparked from deep within, questions abounding, were most undesired. Why him? Why now? What was this? Was this what it was like to have another mech interested in you? If it was… Prowl wasn’t sure he wanted anything to do with this unease, the uncomfortable fluttering deep within his tank.
He shook his helm, turning smartly. “I have to go back to work.” He still had almost a joor left on his break, but he’d rather get back to work than spend time with this mech any longer. Prowl tried to move away quickly, trying to escape.
“Hey, wait a minute!” Jazz pushed himself off the sculpture, jogging to catch up with Prowl. “Did I do somethin’ wrong here? What’s up?” He frowned, confused by his target’s behaviors. His mission was growing complicated.
“We have no reason to associate,” Prowl replied crisply. “We have nothing in common, and there is no reason for you to find anything about me interesting in any way.” Prowl kept walking.
“I’m just trying to get to know you!” Jazz sighed. “You can be frustrating, ya know!”
Prowl stopped short, turning to Jazz and drawing himself up to his full stature, just slightly shorter than Jazz. Jazz stumbled, then faced Prowl as well, his hands on his hips as he chewed on his lower lip. Prowl spoke first. “Then you won’t have any problem letting go of your desire to associate, if I am so frustrating.” Prowl began walking away again, his steps clipped and efficient as he hastily beat his escape.
“Primus…” Jazz heaved a heavy sigh as his helm tilted backwards in defeat. Prowl was determined to be difficult. This would require unorthodox methods and a great deal of improvisation. He glared after Prowl, then jogged to catch up with him once more. Jazz reached out, trying to grab for Prowl’s elbow to get his attention.
At one touch, the barest hint of plating upon plating, of electrical fields crackling and snapping against each other, everything changed.
The power was overwhelming, crackling through both of their frames with the clap of a thunderbolt, reverberating throughout with a physical jolt of forceful, vibrant energy. Electricity burst forth, screaming across their circuits straight to both of their sparks, shattering all controls and cracking every emotional protection walled around their core selves. The raw essence of the other crawled across the insides of their being, worming its way down deep past their plating, deeper than their lines, all the way into the substance of their souls. It was alien, foreign, dangerous, and completely, utterly, world-shattering for both Prowl and Jazz.
Prowl jumped backwards, shock plainly written over his faceplates. He gasped, his doorwings flaring wide as his optics flashed white hot. “What was that?” he yelped, fear lining his small shout.
Jazz reacted with his instincts, dropping instantly into a combat stance and forcing himself to separate from the oh-so-impossibly-perfectly-perfect feeling of touching Prowl’s plating. He wasn’t even aware that he was holding his hand to Prowl’s forearm until his instincts kicked in and forced him to move, to upend himself, and to uproot his deeper, rawer instinct from its purest drive. Jazz’s spark wrenched as he tore himself away, but his processor ruthlessly shut down against his wildly cascading emotions. Coldness took over, an icy efficiency drenching his suddenly hot systems. “What did you do?” Jazz hissed, his visor darkening as he stared Prowl down. “What did you do!”
“Nothing!” Prowl gasped, backing away, wide optic’d. “What was that? What happened?”
Jazz’s antivirus programs were kicking into high gear and his firewalls were running full perimeter sweeps for any breach or attempt to hack his systems. His vents deepened, a tiny curl of rage peeking through his cover. “Did you try to download something into me?” Jazz stalked forward, pressing Prowl backward against the bank of sculptures on their path out of the gardens. “Did you try to hack me? What did you do? What did you just do?” His voice dropped lower, growing gravely and far more vicious. Jazz knew that beneath Prowl’s veneer of shyness lay a calculating monster, one capable of defying and betraying everyone and everything. What danger he may take to ensure his own slippery survival, Jazz could only guess.
“I didn’t do anything!” Prowl protested, his gaze now fearful as he took in the sweeping change that had come over Jazz. “You touched me! What did you do to me?” He continued to back up until he hit the tall, sweeping metal sculptures with a harsh clang. His doorwings dropped down protectively, scrapping against the polished metal curves.
“What did you do…” Jazz growled, drawing himself as close as he dared to Prowl’s body. His scans continued to click over, sweeping every system, and he pulled himself up to his full height, looking down upon the fearful doorwinger before him. His lip curled upwards in a dangerous sneer, and Prowl winced, turning his helm down as he offlined his optics.
The effect would have been more dangerous if Jazz hadn’t let loose a breathy exhale, unable to hold back his body’s raw pull of need toward Prowl’s own body. He could feel his spark screaming to be free, jerking and spasming within his chest cavity, begging and pleading for the one mech right before him. It was madness, absolute folly, and Jazz had never, ever felt anything of the sort ever before. Sparks and all sorts of spark-love were myth, legend, and only the cold facts of reality were what was left for a mech at the end of the cycle. This had to be a distraction, and Jazz didn’t much care for it at all.
All at once he pulled away, transforming down into his alt mode before screaming out of the gardens at full speed. His engine burned, raw power throttling through his being, but nothing matched the aching rend that opened within his spark chamber.
It took all of his being to force himself to not turn back around and return to Prowl, but Jazz forced himself to keep driving, watching the tick down of his virus and systems scanners as he blazed a burning trail straight out of Iacon.
to part 2
Rating: R
Universe: G1
Author:
asher119Pairing: Jazz/Prowl
Word Count: 16,410
That summer, electrical storms ravaged and burned over Cybertron, and the whole world fell apart all around them. The skies fell faster than the buildings, and all the night was illuminated with the burning of a thousand lives. Scratches of lightning tore across the planet, and Prowl’s spark resounded with the devastation of his entire life. That summer, Jazz pressed the first kiss into Prowl’s nervous lips, and two sparks found each other in resonance outside the Matrix. That summer, the whole world fell apart, and Jazz was sent to assassinate Prowl.
At the time, Prowl worked in the Council Chambers in Iacon, directly supporting the Praxian Senator as his personal and legislative aide. His world was small, his friends few, and though he worked in the grandest and most opulent seat of power in the entire planet, Prowl’s life was a study of modest, humble practices. He lived in a simple flat in a quiet sector of the city, and his daily purpose was found within the routines of his day and the fulfillment of his duties. He lived to serve others, and the quiet fulfillment of tasks and operations behind the scenes was where his niche was found. He was the definition of reliable, a study in dependability. He was the best attaché in the entire Council, and Senator Emberwire knew it. He counted himself lucky every single cycle.
Jazz was a Section Leader within the Autobot Black Operations units, personally commanding Section Six. Technically, their three-mech team didn’t exist, and he didn’t report to his Column Commander, Orion Pax. Still, there were lots of things he technically didn’t do, things they could never speak of, and his assignment to assassinate Prowl was just one of those many, many things. Orion Pax’s side assignment, a private request made entirely off-channels, was another thing Jazz could never technically admit to ever doing.
His mission to eliminate Prowl had come from the top, however, and a long series of intelligence gathering operations had narrowed the dragnet around an infiltrator and mole at the Council Chambers. One of their own, one of their insiders within the Chambers itself, was sending detailed, classified and highly sensitive information out to the dissident movement in the South. Troop movements, military deployments, supply shipments, technical specifications, all of it was up for grabs, and much of it had been smuggled out from Iacon only to turn up in the slums and dregs of the Southern city-states, banding together and turning against their Northern brethren. The grumbles of a few dissidents had turned to an angry rumble, which quickly spread and grew into a conflagration of bitter enmity. Insurrection began, and Iacon sent the full power of its mighty army, led by Commander Megatron, to quell the unrest. Insurgency followed on the heels of the military crackdown, and the rage exploded. Communiqués of rebellion, revolution and secession filtered out from beneath the totalitarian blockade sweeping the southern half of the planet. Calls for help, for aide and for a mechs to join their struggle in arms blazed over underground wires and radios.
The bitter grumbles of a few unhappy mechs toward unpopular policies of the Iacon elite had sparked a riotous upwelling of unchecked rage, bursting and tearing across the entire planet. Unease filled every breath, and the anticipation of change, whether asked for or not, was hanging onto every word. It was an uneasy time to be a Cybertronian, at the beginning of one of their hottest summers.
And, Jazz thought ruefully as he settled himself into his new undercover role within Iacon’s elite living sector, it was an uneasy time to be his prey.
Prowl had had a long and trying day at the Council, and by the time it was finally finished, he was ready for a relaxing break. Most times, he spent his few, extremely punctual breaks in the central Iacon Sculpture Garden, but at the end of exceptionally difficult days, Prowl headed to the oil bar only a few blocks from the Council. It was a downtown affair, and it attracted a mixed clientele: loud, boisterous business mechs, seemingly always celebrating at the end of their days, laboring mechs, come for the specials on oil and the cool atmosphere, and staying well away from the business mechs, and the scattered handfuls of traveling, visiting and bar hopping mechs out for a cool drink to quench their tanks or energize their systems. As the night wore on, the crowds shifted, the oil grew heavier, the energon of a higher grade, and the energy positively crackled throughout the entire bar.
Prowl never stayed that long. He had one drink, nursing it slowly as he watched the mechs around him, saw the outward expressions of their different lives, their communications and simple connections they made with the mechs and friends surrounding them, and then slipped out silently to head to his quiet, tidy, lonely home. No one ever spoke to him. No one ever noticed him. Not even the bartender spared him a word while serving him his drink.
When Jazz, who had been observing Prowl for a full orn, stepped into the bar, everything seemed to pause for a long, full astrosecond. It was long enough for Prowl to notice, long enough for him to look up from his drink, and long enough for his optics to brighten with surprise, intrigue, and embarrassment. He lowered his helm quickly, and the raucous noise of the bar resumed, as if there had never been a pause. Prowl fidgeted at his seat at the bar, and Jazz smirked coldly as he maneuvered himself into the shadowy corners.
Jazz had spent an orn following Prowl, learning his every move, watching his every action, memorizing his every routine. For a spy, for an agent of the rebellion and the insurrection, Prowl lived a quiet, monotonous life. His routine was as ingrained as his datachips, and Jazz was almost surprised there weren’t indentations of footfalls leading from Prowl’s flat to the Council Chambers and back again. It was almost as boring observing Prowl’s life and routine as it must be to live it, Jazz thought after only the second cycle. Still, he had seen mechs like Prowl time and time again: bored, solitary, desperate figures, yearning for meaning and fulfillment within their lives, willing to sell themselves to the first person to give an electron about their existence. He wondered what Prowl’s price had been, to sell out everything he claimed to work for, every mech he claimed to support and uphold.
Jazz’s plan was to offer Prowl a better price, a better place to turn to, and once their suspicions and intelligence were confirmed, Jazz’s duty was to eliminate the threat. Eliminate Prowl.
Jazz watched and waited as a group of rowdy mechs jostled back and forth at the bar next to Prowl, until one of them stumbled backward and bumped into the lone doorwinger hunched over his drink. Prowl’s doorwings flared as he fought to balance himself, and the wrestling mechs pushed themselves away from Prowl with only the faintest of mumbled apologies. Prowl’s doorwings fluttered momentarily as he righted himself on his barstool, and Jazz chose that moment to make his move. He sauntered forward, resting himself against the bar at the vacant space on the opposite side of Prowl. At first, he ignored Prowl entirely, catching the optics of the bartender with a roguish sort of arrogant grin.
“Heya, darlin’” Jazz drawled. “Got anythin’ with a higher octane?” His optics shone behind his visor as he turned up his not inconsiderable charm.
The bar mech smirked back, raking his gaze over Jazz’s body. “I might. Got some Seeker fuel I could fix you up with.”
“Mmmm, that sounds ‘bout right,” Jazz smiled, nodding. “But what’s it gonna cost me?”
The bartender didn’t answer, merely gave Jazz another full body leer and turned away to grab the far more potent fuel mixture. Jazz smirked behind the bartender’s back, pulling himself upright to stand next to Prowl. He made sure to squeeze himself just barely too close, but not close enough to touch. Jazz could feel Prowl growing stiff at his side and could sense the tense vibrations of his doorwings held low along his backplating.
When the bartender returned, he slid the Seeker fuel across the bar top toward Jazz and waved away his attempts to pull out a credit chit with a small smile of his own. “Just don’t cause any trouble,” the bartender chuckled. “We haven’t’ seen a mech like you here in a long while.” He punctuated the meaning behind his words with another long, lingering look over Jazz’s body.
Jazz smirked and flicked his wrist, subspacing his credit datacard in a whirl. Next to him, Prowl shifted slightly away from Jazz’s encroaching presence. His optics were fixed to his drink, staring intently at the bar top and the liquid inside.
Jazz peered down at his target. Prowl was so nervous, so obsequious, so unexceptionally boring. This would be an easy, Primusly too easy, assignment. Best to get it over with. Plastering his best and most seductively flirtatious look upon his face, Jazz turned to face Prowl beside him, leaning causally against the bar top. “Why, ‘ello there, mech,” he drawled slowly, letting the honeyed baritone of his outlander accent slip into his speech. It always helped make him different.
Prowl froze, every gear and motion stopping at once. His mouth dropped open, freezing in a tiny “o,” and Jazz distinctly had the impression of a petrorabbit trying to evade his predator by standing perfectly still cross his processor. Too slagging easy. “You with anyone here?”
Prowl’s optics finally darted toward Jazz, quickly seizing up what he had already taken full notice of when Jazz stepped into the bar. His gaze brightened, and he turned instantly back to his drink. “Hello,” he replied softly, being polite. “I’m just having a drink,” he added, almost breathless.
“All by your lonesome?” Jazz’s helm tiled to the side, flopping almost to his shoulder in the image of concern and care. His optics burned into Prowl’s profile, studying his ever facial tic from behind his visor.
Prowl flinched minutely at Jazz’s words. “If you’re expecting someone, I can move. You can have the seat.” Prowl made to stand, already halfway out of his chair and leaving his drink behind before Jazz could react.
“Whoa!” Jazz said, laughing. “I was just askin’, that’s all! Sit down, mech!” He gestured for Prowl to sit once more, smiling and holding out the barstool for him. “I’m here all on m’ lonesome too, so we can drink together. How’s that sound?”
If Prowl’s facial reaction was anything to go by, it sounded absolutely awful to him. His optics flashed as his face blanched, and he slowly sank down into his seat with a shaky inhale. His fingers reached for his drink tentatively, pulling it closer to his body protectively.
“So, what’s your name?” Jazz perched himself on the stool next to Prowl, turning his body to face him as he rested one of his pedes on the lower rung of Prowl’s stool. His leg dangled between them, effectively trapping Prowl and further encroaching into his personal space. Jazz noticed Prowl eyeing his pede and leg, and he scooted fractionally away from the invasion as subtly as he could.
Prowl swallowed before he answered, and he only briefly met Jazz’s gaze. “Prowl,” he said softly, turning to look back down.
“Prowl…” Jazz mouthed, rolling the name around his mouth and letting his accent play with the simple designation. He said it as if he hadn’t already had a dozen briefings on the mech before him, as if he were just meeting him, and as if he wanted to know his name. Finally, he cocked his helm once more, smiling that sly smile of his, the one that always undid mechs. “M’name is Sol.” He let his smile linger, playing on the edges of his lips.
Prowl’s optics flicked sideways, raking over Jazz’s body once more before rising to meet Jazz’s gaze. “Sol?” he asked. It was the most he’d ever truly looked at Jazz, and it was only a few seconds. “You must enjoy irony.” Prowl shifted back to his drink.
Surprised, Jazz grinned truly. He hadn’t expected Prowl to actually display a depth of intelligence or nuanced humor. Most mechs, faced with Jazz’s charm, showed nothing of the sort, and Jazz had already decided Prowl was an unsophisticated simpleton, eager for adulation and praise. Humor was a product of the intelligent processor, and he doubted Prowl possessed one. Glancing down over his deeply dark paintjob, all black lines and angles wrapped with gold and midnight accents, Jazz began to nod slowly, chuckling. “Well, ya caught me there. That I do.” He winked from behind his visor at Prowl. “What are ya drinking?”
Prowl glanced sideways once more, seemingly surprised at every new question. “Just a simple midgrade brew,” he began softly.
“Oh, c’mon on!” Jazz goaded, leaning almost close enough to touch. “Let loose! Here!” Jazz reached out, pouring a healthy portion of his Seekergrade energon into Prowl’s midgrade. It fizzled, plopping and mixing together as the energies crackled and coalesced.
“No!” Prowl tried to stop Jazz’s reach, but he watched helplessly as Jazz completed his healthy dosing of the ultra refined high octane fuel. Grimacing, Prowl’s doorwings slumped. “Thanks,” he mumbled, peering down into his cube worriedly.
“No problem, Prowl!” Jazz grinned as he took a quick swig from his now nearly-empty cube. He watched Prowl over the top of the cube before he lowered it back to the bar top. “So, whatta ya do, Prowl?”
Again, that surprised look from Prowl, that cautious glance Jazz’s way. His lips pressed together, and his optics slowly dragged themselves to meet Jazz’s own. He shrugged self-deprecatingly. “I’m just a personal aide. That’s all.”
Jazz nodded, musing aloud. “Well, only powerful and interesting mechs have personal aide’s,” he teased.
Finally, Prowl cracked a small, timid smile. “I work for a good mech,” he said softly. His optics shifted, and he looked away, staring out over the bar.
Jazz frowned. He hadn’t expected shyness, nor closed-mouthedness or clamming up. He’d expected Prowl to be near bursting to talk about his accomplishments, his work, his personal professionalism and all the perceived ways he was slighted or underappreciated. This feint of modesty was most unexpected, and for a moment, Jazz was puzzled. “Huh,
he grunted. “Well, that’s good. You like your job.” He paused, leaving Prowl an opening to seize. Nothing. “Well, wanna know what I do?” He pushed a teasing lilt into his voice.
Silence. Jazz let it span almost to the limits of discomfort before he spoke again. Prowl’s doorwings were fidgeting, and he could see the faintest depression around his lip, as if he were biting it on the inside of his mouth. “I’m a songwriter,” Jazz offered, leaning close, as if sharing a secret. He had perfected his cover over the years, and had chosen a cover profession that was both interesting to him and that he could live within as well as being a conversation starter and a point of intrigue for nearly every mech he met.
Every mech, it seemed, saved Prowl. Prowl turned halfway toward him, a polite expression of acknowledgement on his face, and nodded once. “That’s nice,” he said quickly, turning back forward.
“Well, don’t you want to know what songs I’ve written?” Jazz teased. Inside, he was growing concerned.
Prowl shrugged. “I wouldn’t know them.” He made to take a sip from his drink, but stopped, swallowing before he lifted the cube as he remembered Jazz’s addition to his cube.
“Why not?”
Prowl finally turned back to Jazz. “I’m tone deaf,” he said simply. This time, he held Jazz’s gaze. “My audials have never been properly tuned to differentiate between the sensitive notes and tones that comprise the musical range. My audial circuits are used for information processing. Music was… never necessary.” Prowl trailed off with a small shrug.
Jazz stared, not bothering to hide his shocked and slightly disturbed expression. “Well… no, music is never necessary, Prowl,” he drawled slowly. “But it’s… slag, it’s life. It’s livin.’ It’s… emotions and power and feelin.’ It’s how mechs can express themselves, even if they are just listening!”
Prowl shrugged, and dimly, Jazz realized that Prowl was still staring at him and hadn’t looked away. “I wouldn’t know.”
Frowning, Jazz set down his cube and reached across the divide between them, resting his hands on the bar top before Prowl. “Look, it’s not all about musical notes. There’s beats too, and you don’t have to hear those. You can feel ‘em.” Jazz began a soft drumming pattern, beating his hands against the bar top softly, drumming out a basic rhythm for Prowl. “Hear it? It’s motion and music, but not notes. Now, change it up-“ Jazz sped his hands up, shifting the pattern to a faster, wild tempo. “And your mood changes. Slow it down –“ Again, Jazz slowed his pace, and his expression turned soft, almost sensual. “And something totally different. See?”
Prowl was staring, optics bright and overly wide as he leaned well away from Jazz, nearly half off his stool. He nodded stiffly, his gaze darting from Jazz’s face to his hands and back again. “Why are you talking to me?” Prowl finally asked, incredulity straining his voice.
Jazz grimaced, but forced it to turn to a smile as he dragged himself back to his own stool. “Here, let’s drink!” he said, grabbing for his cube. This wasn’t going at all how he planned. “To new friends!” He clinked his cube against Prowl’s, maneuvering his hand and arm to get into Prowl’s tense and nervous stance before taking another healthy swig of his fuel. Prowl, being polite, smiled weakly and followed suit. He wouldn’t refuse the gesture.
The first taste of the powerful fuel against his glossa and the feel of the electricity burning its way down his throat and lines sent Prowl into a spasm of coughs and violent hacking. He dropped his cube to the bar quickly, pushing it away as he tried to stop the powerful fuel on its slow burn down to his internals. Jazz reached out, nearly touching him in pretend comfort, but Prowl waved him off with an unsteady arm.
Finally after he was done hacking out his vocalizer and his vents, Prowl stood shakily. “Thank you, Sol,” he choked out, his voice rough. “I’m leaving. I’m going to go…. It was… a pleasure meeting you,” he lied.
“Wait-“ Jazz tried, standing after Prowl.
“Have a good time in Iacon,” Prowl said, slipping backward into the crowd. “You’ll meet plenty of mechs, I’m sure.” His gaze darted around once again, and with a painful smile of apology for everything that Prowl was, he slipped backward into the mess of mechs and disappeared. Jazz, springing from his barstool to try to chase him down, lost the smaller doorwinger amongst the crush of mechs that had begun flooding in for the late cycle entertainment. Prowl, he realized with a sinking feeling, was gone, and he’d accomplished nothing at all.
Jazz frowned, his mood turning sour, and collapsed back into his bar stool. Prowl’s cube sat untouched on the bar top, holding the majority of his Seeker fuel. Jazz snatched it, dragging it close, and slammed back the full measure of the cube in one long swallow.
-
Prowl sighed heavily, letting his helm fall back as his shoulders slumped. He hadn’t been able to initiate recharge the night before at all. Thoughts of Sol, the dark, mysterious mech who had deigned to talk to him at the bar clouded his circuits for half the offcycle. His routine of calm normality had been shattered, and Prowl was still trying to puzzle through just why the mech, who could have spoken to any one, had any one, had chosen to sit next to Prowl. It was a new, entirely foreign experience.
To compound his feelings of exhaustion, the morning at the Council had been near-frantically busy. Senator Emberwire was trying to bridge back channel communications with the Senators of the Southern city states that were still hoping for a political resolution. Everything the Senator was doing, though, was highly classified, and he relied on Prowl to ensure everything was in order. Comms channels, protocols, back channel meetings, sensitive communiqués and discrete messages brokered through the different offices and attaches that Prowl had worked with for years were consuming his workday.
Now though, it was the midcycle break, and Prowl had escaped the confines of the Chambers for the Central Gardens. The sculptures and natural growth of metallic spires were spread out in the gardens amidst small fountains and streams of trickling ionized water. The flowing water cooled the air, and the landscape was serene enough to tease the few wild petrorabbits, turbohawks and motormoles out of hiding to lap at the water’s edge. Prowl brought iron filings with him to scatter for the wildlife whenever he escaped from the Chambers. He scattered some now, a small smile finally breaking over his tired faceplates as a small family of turbohawks swept down from above to pluck at the filings.
For the moment, all the stress of the day, and the night before, vanished.
“Well, well, well,” A cheery voice called from behind the sculptures sheltering Prowl from the bulk of the gardens. “Look who I happen to run into!” Jazz’s rich tones flowed warmly as he stepped around the sculptures, revealing himself with a sly grin.
Prowl froze, his optics widening. He’d fervently hoped to never, ever see this mech again. He was too much, and Prowl didn’t know how to deal with that kind of vibrancy. His doorwings flew upwards, peaking behind his backplates.
Jazz slid closer to Prowl, relaxation and ease spilling from his deceptively happy saunter. “How’s ‘aiding’ going today?”
“What are you doing here?”
Shrugging, Jazz leaned up against the sculpture, watching the turbohawks finish off Prowl’s iron filings. “It’s recommended on the list of sights to see for new visitors to Iacon.”
Prowl’s doorwings fluttered as his hands flexed and clenched. He tried to ignore Jazz’s presence, but the anxiety continued to build within him. This mech was a disturbance to his routine, an unasked for interruption, and the cascades of emotional flashes, the unasked for fleeting feelings that sparked from deep within, questions abounding, were most undesired. Why him? Why now? What was this? Was this what it was like to have another mech interested in you? If it was… Prowl wasn’t sure he wanted anything to do with this unease, the uncomfortable fluttering deep within his tank.
He shook his helm, turning smartly. “I have to go back to work.” He still had almost a joor left on his break, but he’d rather get back to work than spend time with this mech any longer. Prowl tried to move away quickly, trying to escape.
“Hey, wait a minute!” Jazz pushed himself off the sculpture, jogging to catch up with Prowl. “Did I do somethin’ wrong here? What’s up?” He frowned, confused by his target’s behaviors. His mission was growing complicated.
“We have no reason to associate,” Prowl replied crisply. “We have nothing in common, and there is no reason for you to find anything about me interesting in any way.” Prowl kept walking.
“I’m just trying to get to know you!” Jazz sighed. “You can be frustrating, ya know!”
Prowl stopped short, turning to Jazz and drawing himself up to his full stature, just slightly shorter than Jazz. Jazz stumbled, then faced Prowl as well, his hands on his hips as he chewed on his lower lip. Prowl spoke first. “Then you won’t have any problem letting go of your desire to associate, if I am so frustrating.” Prowl began walking away again, his steps clipped and efficient as he hastily beat his escape.
“Primus…” Jazz heaved a heavy sigh as his helm tilted backwards in defeat. Prowl was determined to be difficult. This would require unorthodox methods and a great deal of improvisation. He glared after Prowl, then jogged to catch up with him once more. Jazz reached out, trying to grab for Prowl’s elbow to get his attention.
At one touch, the barest hint of plating upon plating, of electrical fields crackling and snapping against each other, everything changed.
The power was overwhelming, crackling through both of their frames with the clap of a thunderbolt, reverberating throughout with a physical jolt of forceful, vibrant energy. Electricity burst forth, screaming across their circuits straight to both of their sparks, shattering all controls and cracking every emotional protection walled around their core selves. The raw essence of the other crawled across the insides of their being, worming its way down deep past their plating, deeper than their lines, all the way into the substance of their souls. It was alien, foreign, dangerous, and completely, utterly, world-shattering for both Prowl and Jazz.
Prowl jumped backwards, shock plainly written over his faceplates. He gasped, his doorwings flaring wide as his optics flashed white hot. “What was that?” he yelped, fear lining his small shout.
Jazz reacted with his instincts, dropping instantly into a combat stance and forcing himself to separate from the oh-so-impossibly-perfectly-perfect feeling of touching Prowl’s plating. He wasn’t even aware that he was holding his hand to Prowl’s forearm until his instincts kicked in and forced him to move, to upend himself, and to uproot his deeper, rawer instinct from its purest drive. Jazz’s spark wrenched as he tore himself away, but his processor ruthlessly shut down against his wildly cascading emotions. Coldness took over, an icy efficiency drenching his suddenly hot systems. “What did you do?” Jazz hissed, his visor darkening as he stared Prowl down. “What did you do!”
“Nothing!” Prowl gasped, backing away, wide optic’d. “What was that? What happened?”
Jazz’s antivirus programs were kicking into high gear and his firewalls were running full perimeter sweeps for any breach or attempt to hack his systems. His vents deepened, a tiny curl of rage peeking through his cover. “Did you try to download something into me?” Jazz stalked forward, pressing Prowl backward against the bank of sculptures on their path out of the gardens. “Did you try to hack me? What did you do? What did you just do?” His voice dropped lower, growing gravely and far more vicious. Jazz knew that beneath Prowl’s veneer of shyness lay a calculating monster, one capable of defying and betraying everyone and everything. What danger he may take to ensure his own slippery survival, Jazz could only guess.
“I didn’t do anything!” Prowl protested, his gaze now fearful as he took in the sweeping change that had come over Jazz. “You touched me! What did you do to me?” He continued to back up until he hit the tall, sweeping metal sculptures with a harsh clang. His doorwings dropped down protectively, scrapping against the polished metal curves.
“What did you do…” Jazz growled, drawing himself as close as he dared to Prowl’s body. His scans continued to click over, sweeping every system, and he pulled himself up to his full height, looking down upon the fearful doorwinger before him. His lip curled upwards in a dangerous sneer, and Prowl winced, turning his helm down as he offlined his optics.
The effect would have been more dangerous if Jazz hadn’t let loose a breathy exhale, unable to hold back his body’s raw pull of need toward Prowl’s own body. He could feel his spark screaming to be free, jerking and spasming within his chest cavity, begging and pleading for the one mech right before him. It was madness, absolute folly, and Jazz had never, ever felt anything of the sort ever before. Sparks and all sorts of spark-love were myth, legend, and only the cold facts of reality were what was left for a mech at the end of the cycle. This had to be a distraction, and Jazz didn’t much care for it at all.
All at once he pulled away, transforming down into his alt mode before screaming out of the gardens at full speed. His engine burned, raw power throttling through his being, but nothing matched the aching rend that opened within his spark chamber.
It took all of his being to force himself to not turn back around and return to Prowl, but Jazz forced himself to keep driving, watching the tick down of his virus and systems scanners as he blazed a burning trail straight out of Iacon.
to part 2