AN: This is not an actual chapter, it's a series of missing scenes that grew too long to be posted after actual chapters.
For as long as he can remember, Ron Fowler knew what he wanted to be when he grew up.
It was a common game among the children of the daycare he attended until he turned three, where the kids knew no more than what they were told.
It was still the choice of all those in the kindergarten, but, as he grew up, more and more changed their minds to other jobs.
He didn't.
Ron Fowler would be known generations after his time as the best Cybertronian pilot ever.
He was going to join the Military.
His always busy father supported him as much as a man whom he only saw for half an hour a day could, but young Ron didn't care whether he agreed with his son's choice or not.
Nothing would change his mind.
Three days before he turns sixteen, he has his recruitment form neatly filled and all files ready to drop at the Nemesis first thing in the morning of the day he becomes of recruitment age.
He even has his father's signature, hard as it was to catch the man.
So, it is with an almost imperceptible skip in his step that the responsible and ice cool teenager exits his home to go get the groceries needed for dinner.
Half an hour later, his world turns upside down.
Literally.
The day has turned to night, the calm chatting has become panicked screaming, the roof of the small butchery is now pressing him against the cold tiled floor, and his pristine clothes are stained with dirt and blood.
Too much blood, and not all is his.
He tries to take a deep breath, tries to let out some kind of sound, but whatever is on his back doesn't let him do more than take in small gasps.
His head is fuzzy and his ears are ringing, but he can hear the crashing and cracking sounds, as loud and threatening as explosions.
… Perhaps they are explosions.
There's no sense of time as Ron slowly puts things together, as he realizes the screams are pained and panicked, as more moaning starts to make it through the rubble of what once was a whole building, as he manages to move a leg only to wish he hadn't done so as his foot is now pressed against something fleshy.
He reminds himself, over and over and over, that he was in a butchery, that there ought to be pieces of meat strewn amidst the rubble, but he's always been too smart for his own good, for he knows that meat doesn't have blood.
There's a gash on his thigh, bleeding sluggishly, and his right arm is broken so badly that it feels like the bone's been turned to dust, but he's alive.
Trapped, but alive.
There's a small explosion almost right over his head, and he winces soundlessly.
And then, the pressure on his back starts to lift.
Startled and confused, he can only blink when something fleshy and wet and framed by itchy strands rubs against his hair.
When he manages to look up, he finds himself face to face with a furry muzzle.
The dog pulls away, letting light inside as the rubble covering him slowly disappears.
And then, there are arms around him, cradling him close to a warm body, and his head lolls to rest on a shoulder.
With that new angle as hands maneuver him to a more comfortable position, his ribs screaming as he tries to take in deeper breaths, he sees a brand he's never paid much attention to before.
The Enforcers' insignia.
His mind drifts to that as he's carried out of the fallen building, going over the fact that Enforcers are everywhere in the Protectodome but he's never paid much attention to them, instead of trying to figure out why there are giant metallic slabs cutting through buildings or flattening whole blocks that he shouldn't be able to see if the area was undamaged.
The cries and shouts and wails and moans grow silent as he pushes the real world away, and, with it, the pain, concentrating instead on the soft jerks as the man carrying him makes his way through the streets and whatever may be in them.
From time to time, he feels a wet nose touch the toes of a foot he hasn't realized lost its shoe, and, despite how much he hates being tickled, the sensation is welcome.
Because that leg is the one injured, but if he can feel his toes he'll make a full recovery.
No matter what the medics tell him.
He's going to be recruitment age in three days, and he's going to apply for what will be his lifelong job next week, as soon as the medics release him.
… Wasn't that pile of rubble the hospital?
A twitch of toes as the dog licks them, a pang of pain up his thigh and back, and the tightening of his chest as his breath hitches so as to not laugh, and he looks away from the streets—
And back to the Enforcer insignia on the chest he's pressed against.
A quick look around, expertly avoiding looking at anything that's not wearing a uniform, confirms his suspicions.
Medics, nurses and Enforcers.
No Military.
After a second of doubt, he looks up, at the damaged yet standing Protectodome.
Of course there's no Military, they're all busy driving away the Black Beasts so they don't breach their shields.
But the people need help nevertheless, and they're not there to help.
No, they are, it's just that they are outside instead of inside.
They protect the Protectodome to keep its population safe, but they're not helping its inhabitants directly.
Ron wants to help, to guard, to protect.
That's why he wants to join the Military.
But he won't be able to fulfill his dream with them.
He will help, guard and protect people by taking care of the Protectodome.
But he won't be able to look through rubble for survivors, won't be able to guide confused and injured people to the field hospitals he's helped put up.
Nor will he be able to help a distressed and almost worried to death parent to their child.
He's one of the lucky ones to get a bed after he's out of surgery, arm in a cast and thigh and ribs so tightly bandaged that he can barely move, and his father takes him back to their thankfully unharmed apartment what feels like hours later, when he's guided to his son by an Enforcer.
Through the window of his room, while the smell of chicken soup starts to fill their home, Ron sees the aftermath what he now knows was the previous day's attack.
City blocks gone, buildings nothing more than rubble, people rushing around in panic, white tents signaling the field hospitals' locations.
And Enforcers patrolling the streets, some carrying dogs and tools to search through the destruction, others helping the citizens in the streets to the tents and to buildings yet more of their coworkers are adapting to be used as refuges.
There are even some Enforcer hover-cars and vans along the ambulances, used for the same purpose of taking care of those too injured to move. Or those that won't move ever again.
The recruitment form is still on his desk, with all the necessary files, when he looks away from the darkened city on the other side of his window, the environmental and lighting controls damaged or destroyed on some sections.
Moving slowly and carefully so as to not aggravate his injuries, Ron grabs the official datapad he requested in the Nemesis and the one from the Hall of Records containing all his data, and stares.
For as long as he can remember, Ron Fowler knew what he wanted to be when he grew up.
But then the Black Day happened, and what had never changed did.
The Hall of Records was lost.
Almost seventy-five percent of the Military was lost.
About forty percent of the population of the Protectodome was lost.
A fifth of the inner shield was lost.
Two weeks later, the reconstruction efforts start on full.
Mass recruitment of the Military goes back to the slow trickle of peaceful times.
And Enforcer recruitment begins, since most of their members joined the Military, which cut the training time to only Cybertronian driving lessons.
One of those new recruits comes in with a cast on an arm and leaning on a crutch. And with a datapad from the now gone Hall of Records.
Years later, only the scar on his thigh and his position as Commander-in-Chief are left of the Black Day for that recruit.
But when that nightmarish situation seems to repeat itself, it isn't Ron Fowler, the boy who wished more than anything else to help his people, the one who looks through the window of a damaged office.
It's Prowl.
And while Fowler would have run outside and shouted at his Enforcers like Jazz does, Prowl can't find it in himself to worry about anyone but three very specific people.
Because the world he is in isn't real, only four in them are, so why should he worry?
The question gnaws at him all the way to the Civilian Government building.
When they arrive at the Nemesis and other matters take priority, he hasn't yet found an answer.
The guy behind the desk is too cheerful despite his emotionless visage.
Oh, no one would exactly describe him as that, but Jazz knows nevertheless.
Auburn hair perfectly combed in a professional yet casual manner, uniform worn like one does their own skin, and green eyes looking over his datapad with an intensity that makes him wonder if the young man isn't trying to memorize everything instead of making sure all necessary data is present.
Which is how Jazz knows that the guy is happy with what he does, unremarkable as checking in new recruits may be.
"Everything seems to be in order, Mister Smith—"
"Jazz."
"Excuse me?" Green eyes seem to sharpen, but that's the only appreciable change as the young man—Fowler, according to his tag—puts down the pad containing the recruit's personal files.
"My name. Jazz, not Smith. That's just the surname they gave me." He answers nonchalantly, shrugging with a lazy smirk, and the Enforcer's eye ticks softly in a hint of exasperation.
"Mister Smith—"
"Jazz."
"Mister Smith—"
"Jazz."
Snickers from the next desk fill the silence, but they don't break their stare, trying to will the other to yield.
It's been a really long time since the dark-skinned youth found someone as stubborn as himself.
Four years, actually, since the medic that tended to him after the Black Day, and who wouldn't let him sit up on his blanket nest slash bed.
Though he's enjoying himself immensely more now than he did then.
No surprises there.
"Sir, everything is in order. The only thing remaining will be a physical examination and test, which will be conducted—"
"Really?" He has to ask, dumbfounded as he's been left, because that's the first time anyone has circumvented the issue of his name like that.
And, to be sincere, it's kind of insulting.
He's sixteen, who in their right mind would call him sir?
The annoyed yet still looking calm and collected Enforcer, apparently.
"Is there a problem?"
Ah, there it is. Looking cool, but the iciness in his voice tells of his waning patience.
"I'll repeat myself. Really?" And, at last, there's some kind of reaction as the green-eyed man lets out an almost imperceptible sigh through his nose and straightens slightly.
"Propriety dictates to address you as 'Mister Smith', yet you insist on refusing that. Seeing as I can't call you by name, as such would be unfitting of the current situation, the only other available label would be 'Sir'. So, to answer your question, yes, really."
Silence.
Grinning widely, Jazz extends a hand towards the Enforcer, who jumps a bit in his seat with surprise clearly seen in his face and widened eyes.
"But if I was a friend, it'll be alright to be called by name, wouldn't it? Lets start again, 'kay? I'm Jazz, nice to meet you."
After a second of being scrutinized, sized and categorized by those piercing green eyes, a paler hand grasps his own.
"Ron Fowler. Pleasure's mine." Jazz's grin widens as he shakes the hand a bit before letting it go.
"Ron, huh? From Ronald?" He knows he's nailed it when the other straightens and becomes emotionless once more, though there's a hint of annoyance in his gaze.
"Agent Fowler to you, Mister Smith."
"That's not my name."
"That's not what your file says."
"Well, Ronald has a sense of humor!"
"That's not my name."
"That's not what your file says."
Silence.
Jazz's too wide and toothy grin—some would even say predatory—is met by Ron's unimpressed and condescending look.
"And how, pray tell, would you know what my file says?" The question is asked nonchalantly, but it's loaded.
After all, how could a would-be recruit know about personal data from the Enforcers?
Because Jazz is that good, that's how.
"I don't know. You just told me what is in it."
The next instant, the man groans and buries his face in his hands as the dark-skinned youth snickers softly.
"Aw, don't be like that, Ronny. It's not your fault I'm that good."
Jazz lets out a yelp as he suddenly finds a finger barely a hair widths away from the tip of his nose, jerking back to the point his chair stands on his back legs.
The Enforcer's green eyes are burning brightly, clearly not amused.
The dark-skinned man lets out a nervous chuckle.
"Don't call you that again, got it."
After a second, the hand is pulled back and the older man straightens in his seat, as if nothing happened.
Slower, Jazz mimics him.
"As I said before, these are the dates of both the physical examination and the test. Be there on time." The Enforcer adds nonchalantly, tending him the pad with the information, which he hurries to write down and set alarms for.
"Alright, I will. By the way, what do I have to do to enter Spec Ops?"
For the second time since he arrived here, Jazz sees surprise on the paler face.
"I'm afraid that's something that needs to be addressed once you are officially an Enforcer, and after you've served the basic quota of—"
"Aw, you're no fun." He cuts with a pout, resting his chin on his hand, and the other blinks in a mix of bewilderment and confusion.
"I wasn't trying to be." And Jazz finds himself smirking widely once more.
Oh, yes. It's been a real long time since he's had such fun.
And let his name be Nancy if that glint in green eyes isn't amusement.
Since he's still called Jazz…
"So, what are you here for?" Fowler blinks in surprise yet again, and the dark-skinned youth's smirk softens to a lazy one. "You didn't join the Enforcers to babysit the rookies, did you?" Understanding flashes in the other's face before a strange reluctance takes hold of him.
"I joined to help."
Still called Jazz, which means…
"That's not everything."
Not a question, and the reluctance seems to take a firmer hold.
Nailed it.
"I joined to help. But, to do that…" Unconsciously, the dark-skinned man leans forward, a gesture the other mirrors as he drops his voice to barely above a whisper. "I need to sanitize the higher institutions first."
"Which means—"
"—striking from above." They finish in unison, and there's a hint of understanding and awe as their gazes lock.
"Aiming for the top?"
"Not all the way. If I get too high up, I'll become too visible a target."
"Commander-in-Chief?"
"Precisely."
"Ever thought about Civilian Government?"
And the reluctance is back as they sit back properly in their seats.
"Maybe. But I'm not sure if that would be… feasible."
"Are you kidding?" The look Ron sends him tells him that no, he's not, but Jazz doesn't wipe the incredulous look from his face.
"… Perhaps Third in Command." The paler man finally relents, looking down at the table.
"Can't do, 'cause Third will be my post." The auburn head snaps up again, startled and with something that looks too much like betrayal in his gaze. "You can do a lot more as Second, and you're going to need the Head of Spec Ops close by to watch your back, won't you?" He finishes with a wink, and surprise wipes the precious emotions.
And then, to the surprise of the older man working on the next desk, the Enforcer laughs softly.
"Pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?"
"Are we in a Protectodome?" Ron chuckles yet again, finally taking his datapads and putting them away.
"You're a weird one."
"Flattery will get you nowhere, Ronald." The scowl is of annoyance, but the eye-roll is almost fond, so Jazz stands up. "But buying me a drink from a cafe that happens to be just across the street may do. Damn place is too expensive for my meager paycheck."
"Well, it'll do me good to be on good graces with the future Head of Special Operations. How does seven thirty sound?" He asks as the dark-skinned man slowly saunters away, readying himself to run—
"Sounds like a date, Commander!"
Already out of the room and halfway down the corridor, Jazz can't help but start to laugh as he runs away, Ron's voice following him.
"Jazz!"
AN: And some more short scenes. The first was supposed to be the Black Day as lived by those in the Protectodome, but somehow turned into some kind of Ron Fowler/Prowl study... And the second is Jazz and Fowler/Prowl's first meeting (and no, their meeting in the cafe wasn't a date, Jazz just wanted to go out with a bang).
Hope they are enough...
Title's from a song by Default, The Way We Were.
And yes, Chapter 20 will be posted now, after this one. I just wanted to get this out before 'officially' starting the new arc.
Angel Heart: I'll take up your offer, then ;)
I'm glad you liked Megatron's part (as said, I was really worried about it), and I enjoyed in a kind-of-evil way knowing I've managed to get you to be 'on-the-edge-of-your-seat' with Thundercracker and Skywarp. And I couldn't not write Skywarp's ending as I did, both because the character wouldn't allow me to, nor did I want to, so I'm glad you found it relieving :)
Also, feel free to let me know if there's some missing scene/different point of view you'll like to read. I'm in a roll with these things!