The next round, a gyhmkaha navigation course, saw FirstAid and Rewind paired to drive a tight route through numerous cones, weaving through hairpin curves while also shooting targets along the way. With Rewind seated on his sirens to steer him through, FirstAid set a blistering pace but could not keep up with Bluestreak and Rook, both of whom had run the course before. Rewind, splitting his attention between guiding FirstAid and doing the shooting, couldn't keep up with Bluestreak, the Autobot's preeminent sniper.

The race was rendered moot, however, as a light rain finally began to fall, turning the ground slick with a thin sheen of water. Rook spun out, Rewind toppled off during a rough drift, and Bluestreak had to load both mechs into FirstAid's ambulance and help take them to medbay.

Rain's gonna play havoc with anything else , Jazz said, watching the m drive back into the Ark. You wanna call it?

Against your win and a tie? I think not. Prowl made another notation. They should have taken the road conditions into account. This simply calls for more practice, not less.

I think you just don't wanna do my files and reports, Jazz grinned.

"Next round," Prowl said, ignoring him. "Minefield."

Beachcomber stood at the edge of the desert flats beside the main road, looking skeptically at the flags marking out the long, winding paths across the sand. They'd defined a course of almost five miles that ran along the base of the plateau, over two low hills, then wound like a twisting snake for the last quarter mile.

Cliffjumper and Warpath came up beside him on the starting line. Beachcomber turned his helm. He didn't know if his nerves were up to this.

"This is less of an obstacle course," Prowl announced, "and more of an observational practice. You will lose a point for every mine you trigger. The mines are not life threatening, but they will cause a painful dent and pulse of energy if triggered."

"No kidding," Cliffjumper grumbled. "Think my aft is still singed."

"This is a team race, but as long as one mech crosses the line, that will count as a team win." Prowl glanced at the sun to gauge how much time they had. He was glad he'd started the events early—the sun would start dipping toward the horizon soon. "The team with the fewest lost points wins."

"What happens if we go off the track?" Beachcomber asked.

"There are dozens of mines on the track," Prowl said, "but hundreds of mines off of it. The path you choose is yours, but going off-road would not be wise."

Beachcomber looked out over the course again.

"One loss, one tie," Cliffjumper said in a low voice. "You got a gear loose if you think we're gonna let you Con-fuckers win."

Beachcomber grimaced. It had been easy to stand up there with Jazz and Prowl and the rest of his colleagues, but standing in amongst the anti-factionists was something else. Hound was supposed to be his partner in this, but Mirage was clearly keeping Hound running late. Beachcomber was glad as the rain began to intensify, droning out their murmurs. The sandy rock turned dark and shimmered at the edges.

Jazz, he called out. How do you want me to do this?

Rules seemed clear, Jazz said. And Hound'll get here in time. What's wrong?

The rest of them down here'll be awful sore if they don't get to score once. Maybe I shouldn't try so hard, let it go, know what I mean? It's just a game, no big thing. Nothing to get 'em sore over.

Jazz was quiet for a moment.

'Comber...you can't control what mechs think. I can order 'em to do things, but I can't change their minds for 'em. And we both know what they think about you.

Beachcomber winced.

I don't wanna add one more thing to that pile o' hate , Jazz.

To his surprise, Jazz grinned.

'Comber, you gotta pick up what I'm laying down for ya . These mechs know you're a pacifist. They know you hate fighting. But they ain't never see n you in a fight. I didn't pick you to come out here so they could watch you lose. I picked you so I could watch their faces when you stomped them so hard into the igneous what'sis that they had to dig their way back out.

Despite himself, Beachcomber chuckled.

So you wanna know how to do this? I want you to beat them. I want you to beat them so hard they wondered how the hell they ever thought they could keep up with you. I want you to win, and I don't want it close at all. You bury that needle so deep it comes all the way back around.

Beachcomber looked at the route again. Dozens of mines on the path, and hundreds just outside the marked path, and all of them painful little snaps in the armor.

Hound might not like my route , he said.

Oh? How come?

It's gonna be… Beachcomber laughed ruefully. It's gonna be about as crazy as y'all say I am.

Startling Prowl, Jazz stepped off the edge of the plateau and slid down, stepping lightly beside Beachcomber. There was a collective cheer as the rest of the crowd realized that their Third in Command meant to race alongside them, and Cliffjumper gave Jazz a sour look.

"You leading this race?" he grumbled.

"Nope," Jazz said, one hand on Beachcomber's shoulder. "My mech here can win it on his own—he just needed a second, is all, and I'm the only one out here what hasn't had a go."

Jazz stood behind Beachcomber and transformed with him. Even in altmode, it was surprising to see how small Beachcomber was, a light dune buggy beside Jazz's sportier porsche martini.

"Just stay behind me," Beachcomber said, "and stay close."

Prowl fired a shot—Cliffjumper and Warpath rolled forward, not at their top speeds but at a ginger pace, picking their way across the sands and scanning for buried mines. One krumped underneath Warpath's tank treads, bringing a muffled curse out of him, and he adjusted his direction and refined his scanning.

They were making good time—faster than most, which was how they'd won the qualifying run, and managing to tag most of the mines they came across. Cliffjumper checked his rear scan and barked a laugh—Beachcomber was still at the starting line, and Jazz idled behind him.

Cliffjumper almost felt sorry for the dune buggy. That just wasn't a suitable vehicle for war. Almost nothing in the way of armor, too lightweight, and he was a geologist, for Primus' sake. What did an army need a geologist for?

And then Beachcomber began rolling forward faster and faster, careful not to let his tire suck down into the wet sand, Jazz quickly coming behind to ride in his treadmarks. Cliffjumper and Warpath both halted, waiting for the krump krump krump that would follow in quick succession…

...but the sound of mines exploding didn't come.

Beachcomber dodged one way, dodged another, sending clumps of sand flying, and Jazz didn't hesitate to follow. On a couple of sharp turns, the wet sand revealed the edges of mines as Beachcomber skirted only inches away. It was Jazz's heavier weight that almost triggered a mine, and Jazz compensated by leaning into each turn, coming up on one set of tires whenever Beachcomber tilted hard.

"Ack!" Cliffjumper rushed forward, heedless of the next mine under his tire. He focused only on catching up, ignoring how his undercarriage singed over two more mines.

"Don't go off half-cocked!" Warpath yelled after him, wincing at every point lost.

Beachcomber had reached the hills, slowing enough on the first that he wouldn't go airborne, taking a visual scan of the sands as he led the way down. But on the ramp up the second hill, he and Jazz put on such a burst of speed that they both launched forward, coming down hard on the rocky terrain.

Cliffjumper came up on the second hill only a few seconds later, but he froze when he saw Jazz following Beachcomber in a straight shot—both ignored the winding path and drove off-road. This time they did not come through unscathed—one mine blew, then another, but always beside their tire, always inches away, hair-triggers disturbed by sand pushed up by their weight.

When they reached the finish line, they didn't simply drive through. They couldn't—they were hydroplaning on a thin layer of water on rock—they drifted 180 degrees and spun their tires, and the dune buggy still slid farther than Jazz, his lighter weight skimming on the surface until Beachcomber finally came to a rest in the heavier mud beneath the plateau.

Beachcomber, heaving vents, lay still as he checked his treads and exteriors. Jazz, you still good?

Good? Jazz transformed and put his hand out, helping Beachcomber step out of the mud. Mech, that was fun! I gotta take you scouting more often.

Whatever Beachcomber was going to say to that was lost as the Autobots gathered around him, asking how he'd done it, how he'd known where the mines were, how he'd dared to go so fast and how crazy was he to go off the path? It was only as he had to raise his voice to be heard that he realized that they were cheering and smiling and slapping his back.

It didn't matter that he'd won. Or rather, they didn't hold it against him—as Jazz had said, he'd buried the needle and given them a show. Only Cliffjumper, still out on the second hill, looked put out about losing, and Warpath was quickly following in Jazz's treads.

"It's just the calinche," Beachcomber said, but he saw their lost looks and explained. "Uh, hard rock, y'dig? Or rather you don't—too hard, like mama nature making concrete. It's all under this flat, and it's only hidden under a couple inches of sand. One good geological scan and the mines showed up like a starry sky. Plus...well, I'm just a grain of sand on a beach. Couldn't set off a star if I tried. Just too lightweight."

"When we're done here," Tracks said with a good-natured grin, "we're going down to the mess and getting overenergized so I can understand what the slag you're saying."

Surreptitiously backing away from the crowd, Jazz leaned against the cliff with his arms crossed, watching with satisfaction.

Did you know that would happen?

Jazz half-smiled. He had expected the question, but from Beachcomber...not from Prowl.

Nah. But it stands to reason—I picked 'Comber 'cause he knows what he's doing, and mechs love a show. 'Sides, I really didn't wanna do any reports .

I can tell. At least I have a positive outcome—ending this with their enthusiasm is—

Whoa whoa whoa—ending this? Jazz scoffed. We barely had a few events and you wanna end it while the sun's still up ?

The sun is setting, Prowl pointed out with a smile. Besides, y ou've won.

Well sh'yeah. No surprises there. But I just ran a wild race and you're telling me y'all ain't got nothing else planned?

Prowl narrowed his optics.

Yes, you r a n a good race. But you are still on medical observation and I would not want to overstrain your systems. Besides, you have yet to give me your filing—

—Prowler—

—and considering that I must now work on several day's worth of Special Operations reports—

—Prowl—

—it's best if I begin now.

Jazz narrowed his optics. Prowl was being deliberately obtuse. That meant he was playing at something. Prowl and planning...while focusing on Jazz? This was dangerous. Did Prowl want to keep pushing at Jazz's affections?

Prowler… he started lowly.

Prowl didn't respond.

Jazz's mouth tightened. Oh no. This little rotten spark needed to be snuffed out quick. He needed a good, quick way to throw Prowl over...an idea struck him.

When was the last time you did your hand to hand module? Jazz demanded.

Prowl's stiff and deliberately controlled look confirmed it.

You would know, Prowl said, dragging the words out of himself . As you are the one in charge of the melee trainings.

Jazz almost came up on the tips of his pedes with the unbearable lightness of vindication. Modules were the unspoken evil of the army—bots needed basic training. Anyone could download combat programs and military protocols, but it took practice and repetition to train their frames and protoforms to match whatever they downloaded. Anyone could download the schematics for how to slice through a mech's cables—it took a mech like Jazz to make each kill into a fluid dance.

Every mech had a basic download and could opt to take on heavier patches and updates. Most of the civilians didn't want anything more than the bare minimum—add too much new code and the mech changed until they didn't resemble themselves anymore. Prowl was one of those minimalists—of course he didn't want more precious memory taken up. But he was a high profile, highly desirable target, and protocols demanded that he be able to defend himself until the Autobots could come to his rescue.

And one of the very, very few things the Third in Command held in authority over Prowl was the melee training, once a month when possible.

Time to update, Jazz said with a grin. Come on down, Prowler.

...you must be joking, Prowl said. Here? Now?

You want your mechs loyal to ya, right? Jazz put out his arms, motioning at the bots around him with a broad wave. Nothing inspires loyalty more than a mech who'll come down and fight in the mud.

Even after you win? Prowl gave a real wince. The ending of every training was always the same.

Jazz's grin, if anything, broadened.

"One way to find out!" he called up to Prowl, fixing everyone's attention on himself. It had been clear that he and Prowl were conversing, but now Jazz's air of expectation and Prowl's wary gaze gathered the crowd's rising expectation. Something was about to happen—

"Last event!" Jazz said loud enough for everyone to hear. "Lead Tactician versus Lead Espionage!"

Prowl put his datapad in subspace, nodded something to Sunstreak and Soundwave. Then he stepped off the edge of the plateau and slid down much like Jazz had. His landing wasn't as smooth, coming out of the slide with a slight stumble that he covered with a quick step.

To his dismay, he found that the rain had turned this area into muddy patch with spots of blowing dust. With the sun setting slowly behind the horizon, turning the sky violet orange, the edges and depth was hard to tell.

"One round," Prowl started.

"One round," Jazz agreed. "Free style, no holds barred, first one to reach five points wins."

Prowl gave a low vent of aggravation. All optics were on him—but his optics rested on Jazz. The brief summer storm had passed, and now the sunset highlighted Jazz in gold, his wet edges sparkling. Jazz had never been so shiny, even as he gave a merciless grin and raised his hands—not fists but curled claws, balancing his defensive stance.

Enjoying his audience, Jazz beckoned at him once.

Y es, Prowl thought. Success . Now I just need to lead him in.

Prowl's battle processors blossomed open. Every single bit of processor speed focused in on Jazz like a laser. He felt the entirety of his usual processing demand lifted up off of his shoulders to settle on Soundwave. For the first time in millenia, Prowl's cortex was free of all other background work.

He would need that processing power. He'd wanted a friendly match before...but this was no friendly match.

Jazz was the only bot on the base who had downloaded as many combat programs as possible, and honed them to a razor's edge as well. Jazz's stance was deceptively still—he could lash out in any direction, and Prowl began pacing a slow circle around him, never turning his back, always turned sideways to present a smaller target.

Jazz gave a small nod, and Prowl vented out in relief. Jazz could be so mercurial, so spontaneous, that most mechs assumed that he was simply flighty at heart. But Prowl had known him for millennia. Jazz was nothing if not painfully disciplined, and his rules of engagement had been beaten into Prowl's frame during every spar.

Rule 1: Don't stand still. Keep the enemy guessing, ya dig? Move around 'em, walk a circle, anything. You face me, you better never stand still. And I'ma keep putting your faceplate in the mud until you get that through your helm.

The Ark's lights darkened so that the main spotlight focused only on this fight. Prowl knew he'd have to pay for using his personal override later—RedAlert did not like leaving the base dark for any length of time. But Prowl needed the wall of darkness around himself and Jazz. If he focused on the cheering, waving, and stomping of the crowd for even a second, he could crash. Even his audios had been shut down to only accept the frequency of Jazz's voice. All input had been narrowed to just Jazz.

R ule 2: use what you got. You ain't a fighter, Prowler, never will be. That ain't a knock against ya, just the truth. So use what you got. Hack a system, turn off the lights, anything you can. Ain't nothing dirty in the fight 'cept the floor, and we're gonna use that, too.

A tiny twitch of a servo in Jazz's pede was the only warning Prowl had, and he dodged backward with a quick step. The kick turned into an airborne twist as Jazz brought his other pede up and around and into Prowl's back. Prowl didn't go sprawling—the expected pain didn't come as Jazz deliberately missed Prowl's doorwings.

And instead of moving away, Prowl darted in sideways, trying for a sharp jab toward Jazz's hood.

Which was no longer there. Prowl startled—Jazz had been there a second ago—

Jazz had bent backward in a handstand with a rising crescent kick that caught Prowl's hood, pushing him back a step and knocking the air from his vents.

Prowl winced, one hand where he'd been struck.

Jazz held up two fingers with a smug grin designed for the crowd—

No, no—Prowl ground his denta. Focus. Calculate. Strategic loss—

Jazz sprang forward, hands out.

Prowl almost crashed then and there—so much of Jazz was in flux, changing positions and speed, demanding that Prowl break the laws of physics to record both his place and movement. Prowl calculated Jazz's angle, his reach, his—

No time—from a pool of combat moves, Prowl's logic tree narrowed down to grapples, down to three specific holds—Prowl almost crashed again as he had no time to choose from the three holds. He followed one at random, bent and pulled in his doorwings—Jazz's lower half struck his side, and Prowl stood with a turn.

To his surprise, Jazz tumbled—then Prowl growled as Jazz came up in a somersault, hands still raised, still smiling despite being splattered with mud.

"Nice, nice," Jazz said. "Betcha didn't have time to think about that one. You're getting better. Two to one now."

Warmth spread through Prowl's spark.

"High praise," he said, allowing a small smile to slip.

Well, I am taking it easy on ya, Jazz said. Don't wanna pound ya too hard in front of the troops.

So thoughtful, Prowl said. But you didn't mean to let me score that point, did you ?

Jazz's mouth quirked. Okay, smart-aft, playtime's over.

This time there was no reckless lunge. Jazz came with careful, precise strikes that forced Prowl into deliberate steps back. Prowl knew how deadly each strike should have been—Jazz's hands were empty but curled as if to hold a blade. Each attempt would have been fatal if Jazz were really out for Prowl's life—Prowl realized that Jazz was using a kata, that Prowl didn't even rate a real fight, and worse, the kata was working, boxing Prowl in, narrowing his escape routes—he blocked a hit and countered with his own punch that Jazz's roundhouse kicked aside.

R ule 3: Fuck the battle, win the war. You ain't never gonna win—I'm a combat specialist, Prowl. Don't take it personal. But if you can hold your own against me, if you can stay alive in the fight, that's all that matters . Stay alive so I can save you, and then you'll win the war for me.

Prowl's pede slipped in the mud, only an inch, and he started to topple backwards. There was a hit on his throat, under his hood, against his hip, spinning him right, then one on his shoulder, stopping the spin, a smack to his chevron that hurried his fall, and then he was flat on his back in the mud and Jazz was on top of him, knees on either side of his waist.

Prowl reached to grab Jazz's visor. Suddenly his hands were pinned next to his helm in the mud. Jazz was leaning over him, venting hard, venting harder, leaning closer, putting his weight on Prowl to hold him helpless, and his clawed fingertips scraped down into Prowl's sensitive wrist cabling, warning him to yield, like a cat with a fluttery toy.

Remembering the clear optics Jazz had shown him, Prowl looked up into Jazz's visor, staring into him as if he could give him a data packet of all of his feelings, his hopes—

Jazz's grin froze, flickered, faded. His whole frame went still as he gazed back.

"Prowl…what…"

The soft confusion in his voice betrayed Jazz, who tightened his grip on both Prowl's wrist and his own feelings.

What emotions were playing in Jazz's optics? Prowl almost screamed in frustration. So much data locked behind that visor! No wonder Jazz hid behind it. Prowl would have bitten it off if he could have reached.

"Jazz...I...we…"

Prowl could have ripped out his vocalizer. He'd rehearsed this! Why wasn't any of it coming?

Applause—over the sound of the mechs cheering came the sound of one mech clapping. Prowl's senses snapped painfully back to normal—the wind, the mud underneath him, the last rays of sun illuminating a single circle around themselves. And high above them, Optimus watching and applauding.

"Well done," Optimus said. "I wanted to come out and congratulate you on your efforts here—all of you." And he turned to the mechs now quieted around him, listening intently. "What you're accomplishing here is nothing short of inspiring—working together, competing, growing stronger. There is no enemy we cannot defeat if we are all as one. When one of us falters, the rest are there to help. I am proud to call each and every one of you an Autobot."

Jazz took the opportunity to slide off of Prowl and retreat, not quite fleeing from the fight.

Prowl watched him vanish into the crowd, and with a resigned vent, he laboriously climbed back to his pedes. His entire back and side were covered in mud, his doorwing sensors were jammed, and he knew he was going to feel every dent and tensed coil after recharge.

Optimus said something else, patting Beachcomber on the back and singling him out for an impressive if unorthodox performance, but Prowl didn't hear him. Instead his focus shifted to just behind Optimus, behind Sunstreak. Soundwave was in the background, staring intently at Prowl.

Too intently. Like he would have devoured Prowl and still been missing half a meal.

Prowl had no doubt he'd been recording.

I'd better receive a copy, he said.

...acknowledged, Soundwave said slowly , caught out. Raw footage or narrated with slow-motion capture and musical accompaniment?

Prowl wasn't sure how to answer.