Part 32

Prowl sat on the edge of his berth, elbows resting on his pedes, trying not to keel over. It wouldn't be the first time he recharged on the floor, riding the razor edge of too many shifts, but he had one more report to study.

Incident report #20872

Stuffed deep in the old files of the Autobot rebellion, the file dated back to the days of fighting on Cybertron. Prowl looked at the date and—he didn't flinch, but the time stamp still stung.

Less than a decacycle after the massacre at Praxus, and only a quartex before Altihex fell. Everyone had thought that the war would destroy the planet. Most mechs tried to find passage to the colonies. Some mechs simply sank into the rubble of their cities and let their energon run out. The survivors sometimes took up with either faction, but the shock and the sudden hard turn into war left many civilian mechs unable to cope.

Espion Jazz, one of Ironhide's spy units, clearly used his assignments as therapy.

Not that this was entirely new to Prowl. After Rotator's death, Prowl had spent long hours reading the personnel files of every mech, beginning with the officers, and as new mechs were promoted, he read the files that Red Alert compiled for him. As Jazz had only been promoted relatively recently, figuratively dragging his pedes until Ironhide literally dragged him to the promotion ceremony, his file had only been recently censored and redacted.

Prowl had been one of the few voices quietly raised to Optimus as to the suitability of Jazz's possible new rank. Jazz sometimes disappeared for days, even weeks at a time, and his reports were not always fully detailed. Whole hours were sometimes missing, vital hours where he combed through a Decepticon base, and on a few occasions Jazz had blanked out complete sections of his reports, redacting them with an unapologetic grin as he refused to give any information about his actions.

Optimus had listened to every concern and acknowledged them, then took Ironhide's recommendation and promoted Jazz to Third in Command, giving him rank over Ironhide's Special Operations unit. Prowl had watched in horror as Jazz requisitioned bots from all parts of the army, taking the infantry's sniper who could turn invisible, taking the smallest bot that wasn't a a mini, the mech who liked to scout the roughest terrain, one of the last Praxians who was a gambling security risk to boot...and then vanished with all of them.

When they'd come back from their first mission, they were dented, shot, sparking at the joints, their processors so overclocked that their coolant had run dry, and none of them would say what had happened. Jazz had turned in a report that had more blank lines than writing, and nothing of it justified the injuries they'd suffered. Neither Ironhide nor Optimus would back up Prowl's demands for the full report, which they had but refused to hand over, and they advised him to simply be content with Decepticon armaments and supplies that Spec Ops had stolen.

And then not two cycles later, the Decepticon bunker deep in the Ori-belt field had exploded.

They'd received the news during third shift, when Prowl had been in the mess hall with other mechs, and the news—when they'd still had civilian news reports—carried satellite footage of the bunker in roaring green flames. Amid the sudden cheers of surprise, Prowl had seen Jazz turn to his bots and raise a kerosene cube with a grim smile. His bots—a mini, a roughneck, an aristocrat, a gambler—all returned the toast with their own dark looks.

Prowl couldn't understand the thrill of killing. He was too much an Enforcer, a calculator, a civilian for that. But he could understand the satisfaction of a job well done. And he could understand that what happened on Spec Ops missions was not for his optics.

Because sometimes those bots slipped and did something that hinted at their real functions.

No one expected Mirage to be a complete aft of an aristocrat. He'd been an autobot for too long, lost his tower and wealth to the war and only put on airs when it suited a good joke. But sometimes Powerglide or Cliffjumper chose the wrong time to push and accuse and condemn, and then they ended up with Mirage's pede through their faceplate and the sneering condescension of an elite mech dealing with peasantry.

Bumblebee usually had to avoid being tripped over and sometimes forgot he could transform, so used to no one believing he could fight, including himself. And then Prowl had seen him clambering over a toppled jet, swinging up by the other mech's throat cables and severing them in a swift move that had Jazz's signature all over it.

Hound did all of his work outside where Prowl didn't see, in the dirt and hills miles away from the rules and regulations of the base. And Smokescreen—who knew happened in the smoke when one of the last Praxians had a Decepticon in his hands?

And Jazz...

Jazz was no different. He still withheld information, still danced backward down the hall when he was talking to Optimus and Prowl, still threw wild and unsanctioned parties for the soldiers that Red Alert's security details had to clean up. But now that Jazz was not just one of Ironhide's underlings but actually the Third in Command...

Jazz never stopped smiling. He never stopped moving. Even seated at a meeting, his hands tapped a rhythm and his helm bopped. He smiled at everyone in easy camaraderie and never stopped dancing.

Not even when he came back from missions he wouldn't talk about, damaged and sparking, running so hot that the night air steamed off his armor.

Prowl stopped asking what happened when he saw Jazz limp in, visor shattered, optics shut to protect the lenses from cracking. He'd taken Jazz's arm, helping him to medbay, and received a jaunty little salute as Jazz walked off injuries that would have made any other mech collapse.

He no longer doubted Jazz's loyalty or competence. He came to trust Jazz's choices and his autonomy on the battlefield. Prowl even came to trust Jazz's opinion on when Prowl could and could not leave the base.

"Just saying, bossmech." Jazz waved at the main doors of the base, locked and reinforced to safeguard the autobot's Second in Command. "There's loads of 'Cons out there who'd love to put a round through yer spark, and I intend not to let them knock out the autobot's best calculator."

Prowl had stiffened at the old insult, and his doorwings had nearly flared out enough to hit Bumblebee in the face. And then his helm had tilted and his optics narrowed.

"So the reluctant Third thinks he can tell the calculator what to do?"

Jazz, for one moment, had stopped smiling, his mouth falling slightly open at that. And then the grin came back twice as strong.

"Well, calculate me this," Jazz had said, smiling up at Prowl like a cybercat curling close. "Which of us has more experience at keeping high ranking brass alive?"

Prowl had run the calculation. And then given Jazz a polite nod and gone back down the hall to his office, feeling Jazz's look following him all the way back.

But one night Prowl had received an emergency communique that could not wait—he'd taken the message on the steps in front of the base, coming out of his seclusion for information so vital that nanoseconds mattered.

And then he was pushed to the ground, the air beside him exploding with light and sound nearly taking off his helm as Mirage appeared, firing several more shots into the distance. Prowl had looked up in time to see Jazz come out of the shadows and put a blade through the neck cables of the courier, splashing oil and energon on the ground. Then Hound was grabbing Prowl, dragging him back into the base while a magnetized smokescreen covered their escape. Several shots followed them, ricocheting off of the floor and walls, and Bumblebee was manually forcing the door to shut just as something exploded just outside.

It had been Prowl's first real experience with an assassination attempt. His processor crashed and rebooted twice, not from fear but from trying to catalog and process what he had seen, to try to put sounds to individual shots, voices to mechs. He woke to Ratchet kneeling over him, Bumblebee at his side, weapon drawn.

"—would you put it away already?" Ratchet grumbled. "You're making me more nervous than the warzone out there."

"Jazz said to ignore everyone 'till he came back." Bumblebee turned so that he and his firearm were facing the door, though. "And trust no one."

"That little bucket of bolts knows better than to ignore me," Ratchet said. "And you better hope you can still trust me, or else you'll be the first one with his helm welded to his aft."

"...please do not threaten an autobot soldier," Prowl muttered, pushing himself up to sitting. "Especially after he saved my life...I think."

"Um, yessir," Bumblebee said over his shoulder. "Sorry we didn't let you know we were there, but Jazz said he had a bad feeling and he had us set up before your courier got there."

Prowl sighed, closing his optics, and let Ratchet turn his helm so he remove a cover plate. The familiar medical link connected his processor to the medibot as Ratchet examined his cortex, adding the usual code to return his running speed to the proper gigahertz.

"Is Postal dead?" Prowl asked.

"Postal?" Bumblebee echoed.

"The courier?"

"Oh...uh, yeah. I don't think he was alive for awhile, though. Jazz says he was probably hijacked, wiped and puppetted back here. He was riddled with explosives and shrapnel."

Prowl looked up, earning a grumble from Ratchet as the cords tugged. "Shrapnel? Are Jazz and Mirage—?"

The main door opened again, and both Mirage and Jazz backed in, slamming the door shut as the last wisps of smoke curled over their plating. Mirage heaved a long sigh and slung his rifle over his shoulder and, with a nod from Jazz, went to join Hound wherever he had gone.

"Con's are getting creative."

Jazz knelt down next to Prowl, turning and flopping back against the wall. This close, Jazz's scratched and scorched armor showed Prowl exactly where the shrapnel had drummed over his pedes and back, leaving long gashes on his doorwings. A little oil spilled from the wounds, but Jazz was smiling as he stared at the ceiling.

"Sorry 'bout your mech," Jazz said. "If it's any consolation, that wasn't him. His cortex was gone and his spark chamber was empty. They just patched the corpse up long enough to get it close."

It wasn't much consolation—Postal was one of the few mechs that Prowl regularly interacted with besides the officers.

"But his gun barrel was melted to slag and he had a lot of quick patch jobs on 'im. My guess? He took out a lot of Cons before he went to Primus. Made 'em bleed for it."

As Ratchet finished his processor check, Prowl took a moment to study Jazz. The smile was still there, but his voice had run dry and humorless, like he'd stayed too long at the party. Ratchet began applying kevlar patches and sealant gels, and Jazz turned slightly to make certain patches easier. The little movement spoke to how often Jazz had to visit medbay, how often he saw death and disaster. And Prowl wished he could make the job easier.

"That...does help. A little." Prowl vented. "He was not a friend, but...I knew him."

The roar of Autobot fliers soared overhead, rattling the walls as they scrambled toward the unseen Decepticons. Prowl winced, but neither Jazz nor Bumblebee flinched, so used to hearing engines overhead, to mechs exploding an arm's length away.

So why did Jazz flinch at a stolen kiss?

Incident report #20872

Classification: Clearance Level Optimal

Reported by: Ironhide

Incident Type: Assault

Location: Qual Adhoc Base, Wing "A", West hall

Orbital Date: 234/92/29910

Names of Suspects: Musical Tone, Courier to Optimus Prime; Mercator, front line infantry

Description of Incident: Musical Tone was accosted in an empty hallway by Mercator, who refused to let Tone pass. Mercator attempted to intimidate Tone with his superior size (S-unit Polyhex tank) and demanded to be allowed access to Tone's seals. Tone refused, attempted to bypass Mercator again. Mercator then grabbed Tone's shoulder and slammed him against the wall, straining Tone's doorwings. Tone called for help until Mercator put his hand over Tone's throat, compressing his vocal cords. Mercator forced his mouth on Tone's.

Here the recorded footage becomes difficult to follow. Tone struck his hand into Mercator's pelvic joint, the only joint that he could reach readily. He then tore out three major cables—oil, energon and coolant—so that they were left dangling over Mercator's armor. Mercator drew back and struck Tone across the face so that he fell, but that put Tone in range to cut Mercator's left pede tension coils. Mercator crashed sideways to the floor, which put him in better range for Tone, who crawled up and tore Mercator's throat cords. Mercator then aimed and fired three times at Tone, leaving two bullet wounds in his arm and hood and one round in the wall. Tone grabbed Mercator's face plate and severed its fasteners, ripping it off of Mercator's face. Tone then proceeded to tear off Mercator's Autobot insignia, revealing a Decepticon marking, as well as his turret and the covering of his spark chamber.

Tone had to be sedated without his knowledge (note: 3rd medic Ratchet showed great promise at this field function).

Tone suffered injuries including sprained door wings, bitten face plate, dented face plate, shot side and arm.

Witnesses: Ironhide, Red Alert

Enforcer Report Filed: Optimus Prime

Follow-Up Action: Since the highest levels of Autobot officers are witnesses with recorded evidence, no further investigation is necessary. Mercator has been listed as KIA. Autobot Musical Tone's discipline record has been expunged as he has been absorbed into Ironhide's Special Operations unit. New field handle to follow.

Addendum, Orbital Date: 275/136/30339

Incident report #20872-2

Classification: Clearance Level Optimal

Reported by: Rotator

Incident Type: Assault and Homicide

Location: Qien Station, South Port

Names of Suspects: [name redacted], Espion; Drillbit, front line infantry

Description of Incident: [name redacted] tore out the throat cables from Drillbit. With his bare hands. Natural flexibility and combat training make [name redacted] a liability if he cannot control his impulses. One Autobot dead because [name redacted] was taken by surprise is unacceptable. He refuses to state what happened, and I refuse to let him out of the brig until I have an explanation. (Second in Command Rotator)

Ironhide's note: Drillbit made the mistake of jumping [name redacted] and expecting him to fold up and take it. Far as I'm concerned, [name redacted] saved us the trouble of a court martial and stowing that pile of scrap in a brig. [Name redacted] has a perfect record of killing enemy mechs. This one just happened to be wearing an Autobot insignia at the time.

Prowl reset his optics.

Tone...he'd known that Jazz had not always been Jazz, but his friend's history had always been somewhat shadowed. Jazz only told a select handful of mechs about his life, and only bits and pieces at that. And he'd known that Jazz was their best spy and assassin, but Prowl had never seen him take a mech apart with his bare hands.

"What did Drillbit do?" he murmured to himself.

"Cornered me."

Prowl froze, almost literally as his coolant ran a sudden cycle. Barely moving, he glanced toward the corner of his quarters where the dim glow of his berth light didn't reach.

At first he didn't see him. As his optics adjusted and readjusted, spinning the strongest lenses into place, he made out the thin edge of Jazz's doorwings, the sheen of his visor. And realized that Jazz was letting him see even this much.

This was how Jazz killed unsuspecting Decepticons. Prowl wondered if Red Alert knew Jazz was here. Should he say something about it? Likelihood of Jazz simply leaving—82%. Prowl did not comment on the intrusion.

"I...didn't think anyone could surprise you," Prowl said.

"Appreciate the vote of confidence," Jazz said, all fake cheer, "but I wasn't a master back then. Just a little espion, lowest of the low ranks. And he was a lot bigger'n me."

"He tried to hurt you?" Prowl asked, realizing already that was a stupid question. Jazz was a killer, but he wasn't insane. He wouldn't attack someone unless—

"He just wanted to put the moves on me," Jazz said with a smile. "Pin me down, wind me up, see which way my doorwings fold. Hear the little noises I make when I can't get away."

Prowl frowned. "The report says that he was a decepticon."

Jazz's shadow shrugged.

"S'what Ironhide says. Honestly? I never saw no purple decal, no red optics." Jazz chuckled once. "Ironhide...he takes good care of his Spec Ops."

Prowl waited, but nothing else came. Jazz stood quietly, waiting for Prowl's judgment, and Prowl looked down at the report again as if it would conjure up more information. There were no photo attachments, no descriptions of Drillbit's wounds. Just the briefest of accounts and an angry second in command demanding Jazz's spark.

"Did you actually tear him apart?" he murmured. "A full mech?"

"You really asking that?" Jazz said. "When I almost ripped your pelvic casing out the first time? Or had the blade on your hood?"

Prowl's frown deepened. Jazz had acted instinctively then. Perhaps more than instinct. Fear.

Jazz had told him once that "anyone going into espionage knows they're gonna be force-downloaded eventually." Probably more than once. Lucky to escape alive, and Jazz had been caught more than enough times, usually on purpose, to feed the enemy bad information. A deadly killer with a hair trigger and a paranoid streak a mile wide...

Perhaps it was pure luck that Jazz hadn't carved up more bots—37%. Perhaps Jazz wanted Prowl's anger and accusation—23%. Perhaps Jazz was afraid of his own reactions.

78%.

"I am glad he did not hurt you." Prowl put the datapad aside. "And that Ironhide protected you. Rotator...I never met him, but he seems too highly strung, even by my standards."

Jazz's smile glinted in the darkness, a cat's grin after it swallowed the pet canary.

"Well, he sure had his moments."

Silence stretched between them. Neither moved, and Prowl grew aware of the hum of his engine, the electric whine of the berth, the vents regulating the Ark's temperature. Of Jazz...nothing. Not even the scuff of metal on steel. Jazz hadn't moved an inch.

Prowl wasn't sure what Jazz was waiting for. And he couldn't guess. Of all the bots on earth, only one was completely unpredictable to his processor. So all Prowl could do was be Prowl.

"I require recharge," he said almost in apology. "I cannot put it off any longer. You are welcome to...rest with me, if you wish."

As Prowl brought his pedes up and lay straight, he heard a faint vent from his friend.

"Just an innocent invitation to the berth, huh?" Jazz said. "Convenient."

"I will be locked in stasis," Prowl said, keeping any irritation from his voice. "Even so, company...trusted company is..."

He couldn't finish the thought, unable to put the feeling in words.

"Yeah," Jazz said. "It is."

Prowl felt himself lock down on the berth, slipping into recharge. As his processor slowed and his programs slowly began to come offline, his base functions became aware of a rumble an engine, the warmth of another frame laying beside his. Fingers curling into his hand and of steady vents beside himself.

Normally Prowl could not afford to allow his processor to completely shut down and reboot. An attack could come at any time, a sudden mission at any moment. Tonight, however, he allowed himself a total recharge and felt his programs begin to completely defragment.

Tonight he was guarded personally by the most dangerous bot on the base. And he was repairing the first bit of their trust, like a bit of data nudging back into its proper place.