This is my very first posted story, and I truly hope all of you out there like it! I decided to do a small analysis on Prowl and Jazz's friend relationship, and this was the end product. Please rate and review, but any derogatory or simply rude comments and reviews will be erased.

All credit for Transformers (Generation 1) and the characters Prowl and Jazz goes to Hasbro/Hastak. Story/plot is credited to me; please do not post this anywhere else without my permission and crediting me, thank you.

Enjoy.

So...this was what it was like.

Prowl tilted his helm back to stare up at the stars, twinkling ever so lovely countless miles above him. They really were beautiful, especially on clear, cool nights like this, and it was a shame he hadn't bothered to sacrifice so little as a moment of his time to simply look up and enjoy the view. Oh, bots had told him it wasn't healthy to stay cooped up in his office Earth day after Earth day, but had he listened? No, of course not.

A long-suffering sigh escaped his vents and billowed for a moment around his sides before dissipating. The Tactician felt so...lonely, small, and utterly useless in a time like this. He was just a walking computer, spitting out statistics and being that cold and untouchable entity one in his position was expected to be.

And how much it turned out to be a mistake; how much had he hurt him? Oh, enough to dash out into battle with total abandon and get himself killed. And when they found his body, charred and grey, he had looked into that once beautifully gleaming visor and reminisced on how it would never again light that darkest hour that would inevitably come at some point in the near future. They hadn't even had the privilege of a proper burial, at least not one fit for a bot like Jazz: Third in Command, Head of Special Operations Division, and best Saboteur to ever be sparked. And a good friend; the best, really.

Jazz had always told him he was too stiff, and needed to unwind. He would prance into Prowl's office with that goofy and incredibly infectious grin of his and pluck the datapad from the SIC's hands, putting it into his subspace and hauling him to the Rec-room for some much-needed energon. Prowl had, of course, protested and demanded his datapad be given back, but he had always stayed in the Rec-room with Jazz until the Saboteur deemed him 'fit to go'. It was like some well-rehearsed dance, and everything moved in tandem with each other which brought forth this delicate balance in Prowl's life. When he worked too hard (by everyone else's standards, not his), Jazz would come and get him out and about. When he was sad, Jazz would cheer him up. When he was depressed or stressed, Jazz would give him a shoulder to lean on.

But now that shoulder wasn't there anymore. It was six feet under, attached to nothing but a grey corpse to simply lay there until the elements of the Earth broke the metal allows of his armor down and he integrated with the soil. Even in death, he still contributed in a positive way to his surrounding environment, whether it be with his infectious smile, or returning his atoms back into the planet, even if that planet was not his own. Prowl vented once again at these thoughts, feeling like a hollow log.

So, this was what it was like…

…To truly be emotionless.