"Isolate begin," Prowl said, shifting his weight to one pede before he threw the first punch. "Config sys, open run start—"

Coding. Jazz huffed and blocked the first strike, pushed aside the next, thrust his elbow toward Prowl's faceplate and feinted a punch right into Prowl's midsection. Prowl stumbled backward, coughing oil from his mouth, and glared back at Jazz.

"You're running slow if you have to talk through your code," Jazz scolded him. "Quit planning things out and fight!"

The word was delivered with an angry open palm strike straight at Prowl's chevron. Prowl twisted at the waist so that it missed, but Jazz simply clenched his fist and smacked his knuckles into Prowl's faceplate again, snapping his helm back.

"...block out negative subset," Prowl grunted through grit denta. "Inset inset inset—"

"Sure you ain't glitching?" Jazz said, staying light on his pedes. "That's two points if we're counting."

"—binary one one one," Prowl said, ignoring the taunts. He glanced at Soundwave. "Alt sys combine."

"Okay, don't say I didn't warn ya—" and Jazz darted into Prowl's space with a left jab that should have knocked Prowl on his aft.

Instead Prowl parried, and parried the next one, and somehow managed to throw his own. Jazz found himself in a swift flurry between them, much faster than he'd ever fought with Prowl before. Normally the other mech had to slog through a dozen branching logic trees to decide on an action—the choice took less than a few nanoseconds, but enough for Jazz to easily exploit.

But this time, Prowl wasn't slowing down.

Jazz allowed him a handful of punches and a block, annoyed that Prowl was still murmuring coding. Tired of the show, Jazz pivoted his force into a roundhouse—

Prowl snapped around, both arms up, and blocked with his forearms.

Jazz blinked.

The kick sent Prowl sliding back an inch, and the metal of his arms was scuffed, but Prowl was still standing. And then Prowl jabbed out and managed to connect with Jazz's helm. Only well oiled reflexes saved Jazz from a cracked visor as he bent backward, grabbed the floor and kicked right up under Prowl's hood, connecting twice as he somersaulted.

Prowl sprawled backwards. The soft crunch of Prowl's doorwings under him satisfied Jazz's spark with an ugly jealous twist he hadn't known was there.

"Three and four," Jazz said. "We done here?"

Prowl turned, gathered his pedes under himself, and came back up. His wings sparked but didn't hang brokenly.

"Close set, reframe, redefine," Prowl growled.

Jazz's mouth set in a firm line. His fists clenched. And this time when he snapped forward, he put real force into the thrust toward Prowl's midsection.

Blocked.

Redirect—up toward Prowl's faceplate.

Blocked.

Downward grab to drag at Prowl's hood and pull him down toward Jazz's rising knee.

Deflected.

Jazz's frustration grew. Prowl was not this fast. Prowl was not this decisive, not this confident. What the hell was Soundwave providing that gave Prowl this kind of an edge?

Jazz crouched low and struck Prowl's knee, sending him down on one pede, but the second kick at Prowl's helm was dodged as Prowl leaned back, using his weight to both move out of Jazz's reach and stay standing.

Jazz feinted a sweeping kick that disguised how he swept his hand over the floor, gathering up a fistful of steel shavings. After three fights, there were more than enough slivers scuffed free from their armor, and as he came up, he flung the dust into Prowl's optics.

Prowl stumbled backward, hands up to ward off the flurry of punches he could feel flying toward his face. One hand over his optics, turning away from Jazz, not seeing the kick straight at his face—

—his hand came up as if yanked by wires, blocking Jazz's pede with one arm. The clang of steel echoed through the room as part of Prowl's armor cracked loose at the seam, and with a pained cry, Prowl went back down on one pede.

"Structure group info n-block three," Prowl said through grit denta.

But it wasn't how Prowl was finally starting to crumble that had Jazz's attention. It was the way Soundwave had turned to match Prowl's block, his arm raised.

Jazz's mouth made a small 'o' as he understood.

"You...you're puppetting him!" Jazz looked from Soundwave to Prowl, Prowl to Soundwave. "You're both idiots! You ain't a warbuild, you glitched calculator!"

As if to prove him right, Prowl's good pede gave out and he landed on his side. Favoring his cracked arm, he glared at Jazz through reddened optics as he rapidly blinked the steel out of his servos.

"Set usage B block null void all," Prowl said, moving away, pushing himself up on his good arm. "Free range expand limit three, user one, user two, user three—"

"You ain't running fight code," Jazz realized. "What the hell are you trying to code?"

"Goto new route, new route initiate—" Prowl continued. "—return zero user set array—"

Jazz pounced at Prowl's throat. Prowl's hands came up in an expert block that also broke Jazz's hold and smacked right against his faceplate. His pede came up and planted firmly in Jazz's midsection, pushing him off.

Jazz stumbled backward, caught himself, and dove again—but now that the secret was out, Prowl no longer hid how he was being manipulated across the field. It was the creepiest thing Jazz had seen, reminding him of dead mechs being puppeted like drones. Worse—that it was Prowl allowing it to happen to himself, overheating and venting hard on empty coolant tanks as he blocked everything Jazz threw at him.

"Stop it, you slagging 'Con!" Jazz turned, trying to see Soundwave, but Prowl wouldn't let him, advancing relentlessly with moves that weren't his. "He ain't meant for this kind of fight!"

"Jazz, correct," Soundwave admitted from the other side of the room. "Soundwave, superior at physical combat. Ordered not to attack except through Prowl."

"That's stupid," Jazz said back at Prowl. "That's stupid. This is stupid—what the hell are you doing something this stupid?"

"Simple shell sort," Prowl answered, but he was speaking faster, pushing out every word as he obviously sprinted for the end of his coding. "Int base max stride—"

Jazz felt a deep sinking sensation. He'd never encountered this kind of a fight before. And if it had been a Decepticon fighting him, he could have ended it several times. He'd had dozens of opportunities to grab Prowl's cords and pull them loose. He could have spun around and shot off Soundwave's helm. He could have ended this over and over again, but Prowl was chanting something he didn't understand as he used a warbuild to shield himself from Jazz's attack.

Jazz couldn't end this. It was Prowl.

"Oh fuck this," Jazz snarled, real heat in his voice—

Prowl raised his hands for a block he didn't think he could survive—

And Jazz turned, flinging two blades across the room at Soundwave.

Prowl froze—the blades moved in slow motion, sinking into Soundwave's shoulder armor—Prowl couldn't help but start assessing the damage, the pain, the real harm Jazz was causing—this wasn't supposed to go this far, this wasn't supposed to—

Soundwave slapped the blades aside as if he barely noticed them. Knives that would have sunk through Prowl straight into his protoform were like tiny thorns to a warbuild.

"Relinquishing connection to Prowl," Soundwave said, his voice tinged with relief, and he devoted full measure of resources to defending himself.

Soundwave assumed his own stance as Jazz sprinted, leaped, transformed into his altmode and spun a wide donut, knocking Soundwave's pedes hard enough to dent. As Jazz spun, he came up in a punch that carried his full weight behind it. Soundwave reached up and caught it with one hand—Jazz turned the punch into a grab so he could land a double kick in Soundwave's shoulder, wrenching the joint cables. The noise and concussive force echoed around the room, ringing out around Prowl.

Prowl almost stopped reciting code.

Jazz never fought like this with Prowl. There was a viciousness in his swing that rattled Prowl's denta just being in the same room. Jazz, a full ten feet shorter than Soundwave, used a real set of blades in both hands, used real force in his kicks, and managed to back Soundwave all the way against the wall.

Prowl felt sick. The fight had nearly broken him open—his arm was already cracked wide—but Jazz wasn't even tired. The next kick struck Soundwave's face and forced his optics to glitch.

From the decibels and the reverb, Prowl could estimate the pounds per square inch Jazz was generating. And Prowl realized that, as much as Jazz had talked a good game, he'd still gone easy on Prowl.

Very easy.

Soundwave's sonic blast hit Jazz head on, sending him sliding along the floor, but Jazz kept his hands up in a block and never lost his footing. He countered with his own sonic array, and both of them kept dialing up the strength until the walls behind them began to vibrate and warp.

"Tri stride set true," Prowl whispered, then said louder, then yelled so that he saw Jazz turn his helm just a fraction. Jazz had to hear this for it to work. He would make Jazz hear them.

Jazz tightened the cone of his sound into a stream. If Prowl had analyzed the change, he would have seen the blast of traverse waves shot through Soundwave's longitudinal sonics—like a bullet through a sledgehammer.

And like a sledgehammer against a bullet. Both of them rebounded, stumbling and toppling backward, already starting back to their pedes. Prowl realized that this was also not the first time they'd fought like this. They knew each other's from the battlefield.

This was wrong. Too real. They'd made a mistake. As he gave the last bits of code—"read true, positive, affirm, yes end return"—he realized the fatal flaw.

He'd won. He and Soundwave had won. Yet while statistical probability calculated 99% of Jazz...they were still a fatal 1% out of tune.

Soundwave saw Prowl's hesitation and announced his retreat to a confused Jazz, immediately going to Prowl's side. So much taller, he enveloped Prowl, going down on one knee and holding him, bracing him from falling. His own coolant tanks were still full, and he used himself as a heat sink to draw off the steam rising from Prowl's armor.

The room was silent save for the hiss of Prowl's engine.

"Close system," Prowl groaned. "Close all."

"What the hell is wrong with you!" Jazz yelled, looking around for an answer written on the walls. "What are you doing? Stop it!"

Prowl couldn't answer, venting too hard, sick to his spark. He should have listened to Ironhide. He'd solved the solution and reduced it to nonsense at the same time.

"End variable 1," Prowl said softly. "End variable 2."

"Stop coding!" Jazz brought his hands up but there was nothing he could punch. He couldn't kill Prowl to stop it. His programming demanded that he end the threat but the threat was Prowl and the threat was Soundwave, and his spark recoiled so painfully that his frame ached. His voice turned sharp, brittle, started to break at the edges. "You're falling apart and you're letting it happen—you both want each other, why are you doing this, why are you doing this, why are you—!"

Prowl wiped the last steel from his optics and stood as straight as he could. A last drop of coolant slipped free of the the cracks in his armor and hissed into steam.

"End string," Prowl said softly. "End line."

Jazz's voice broke into a high keen. Words failed. He couldn't even begin to form the questions.

"Run program."

Config sys

open run state

block neg

The code tilted his awareness, pushing Jazz backward into himself, suddenly intensely aware that he was looking through his optics. He saw the lenses changing, twitching in swift rotation to try to refocus, and he saw the edges of the sockets like dark shadows just at the far peripheral of his vision. He saw Prowl cradled in Soundwave's arms, both of them staring at him as if down a very long tunnel.

Rows of code flashed in front of him. To his surprise, Jazz recognized it as it ran. He never would have understood what made it work, what the strings of letters and fragmented words meant, but it had Prowl's voice and Soundwave's voice, both of them working together.

Asking permission.

Jazz couldn't help a sharp, bitter laugh.

The virus was asking permission even as it was already in.

Run .exe yes/no?

This...this was what he'd watched them working on, he thought. What they'd spent long hours calculating together.

Prowl wouldn't hurt him. He didn't think so. Then again, Jazz hadn't thought that he'd be cornered in a lonely corridor by mechs claiming to be Autobots. He'd killed Mercator and Drillbit—he could probably take Soundwave apart—

His spark twisted.

Run .exe yes/no?

No. No.

This wasn't like that. He shut his optics. Strange colors floated in front of him, the back lining of his optics, but the code was still there.

Run .exe yes/no?

He could say no.

He could say no, and then the program would end, and he'd be in front of the two of them. And he would rage and deny everything he ever felt and this would be the end of it. Spec Ops: One Thousand, Never Date Co-Workers, the cautionary tale, and he'd walk away with his helm head high…

No.

Run .exe yes/no?

He'd deny the program, walk away, and turn his back on the both of them…

No.

He'd just…

Run program.

The code flowed in like water, creating a new path for itself in his cortex. He could almost picture it trickling in just behind his left optic, cool and insistent, demanding space as it took form and solidified.

For all the code Prowl had strung together, the effect was simple. Jazz might have even called it elegant if it hadn't been pushed into him. He'd felt other viruses before, Decepticon worms force-downloaded into him and deleted only after great effort from Ratchet. But this didn't move like a worm.

It sparked, it soothed, it gently shifted open something in Jazz's point of view—and then it retreated, cleaned up a fragment of code, and vanished as if nothing had ever been there.

Three. A possibility.

The change was subtle, a small realization.

He could see properly again. He reset his optics several times, surprised he was still standing.

Prowl wasn't. In the time taken to run the program, Prowl had sunk down, braced against Soundwave's pede. His cracked arm lay in his lap, and Soundwave had spliced himself into Prowl's cortex to do...whatever it was calculators did when one of them calculated too hard.

Jazz didn't know. And right now, Jazz didn't care.

"Explain."

"A...it was…" Prowl coughed, venting hard.

Soundwave reached up, pulled a cable from behind his back, and connected the coolant straight into Prowl's tanks. An audible rush of fluid went from one mech to the other, and Prowl settled more fully into Soundwave's hold as his engines no longer felt like they were burning.

Jazz didn't bother with "I told you so." Civilians were not warbuilds. They were not meant to be puppeted like one. And they were certainly not supposed to try to fight while spliced and stumbling through code. The difference was even more striking as Soundwave held him—the difference in armor, the sheer power differential, even the quieter revving of Prowl's systems beside the monstrous power of a high ranking combat model.

If Prowl hadn't been so badly hurt, Jazz would have dented his nasal ridge.

"It was my error," Prowl murmured. "I didn't realize until...a fatal flaw. Critical error."

Jazz waited.

"I should...we should have tried again," Prowl said, closing his optics. "To explain. To explain that you don't have to choose. That…that there are more…that…"

He coughed again, straining his vocalizer in frustration. "I have rehearsed this but it never comes out clearly."

Jazz glanced at Soundwave, finding the frustration mirrored his optics. "What don't come clear?"

"Three instead of two," Soundwave said readily. "Jazz, struggling to create pathway for logical option."

"'Struggling'," Jazz scoffed. "And this was y'all's solution?"

Soundwave's mouth pressed a firm line. "1.1% out of tune. Small but fatal error."

Jazz didn't understand. At all. And that meant he only had one option left.

"Delete it."

Prowl schooled his face so he didn't humiliate himself more than he already had. When he looked up at Jazz, he saw nothing but cold discipline.

Jazz would not ask again.

Prowl gave up, his doorwings fluttered once in pain and then went limp on the floor. He stared at a point on the far wall.

"...command code 'no' will delete the—" Prowl murmured.

"No."

Prowl hadn't finished speaking before the refusal was out of Jazz's mouth.

Jazz turned on his heel and walked swiftly across the chamber, his steps echoing hollowly around them. When he reached the door, he paused, standing in the entrance and gripping the doorframe. He refused to look at them.

"Why?"

A pause.

"You were...are...worth the attempt," Prowl said.

Soundwave shut his optics tight, in full fury, thwarted. And threw his anger at Jazz's back.

"Because...Jazz, superior at running."

Jazz maintained iron control over himself. He closed the door a little harder than necessary, but he held himself together as he went to the nearest lift and sealed it so no one would accidentally join him inside.

Ironhide, he said. Where's Optimus?

Huh? His office. Sparkplug, you okay—?

Fine. Gotta see him is all.

Ah, he's working on—mech, I am feeling layers of red hot angry on ya.

Jazz didn't answer. The ride down took a long minute, passing multiple clearance checks as RedAlert checked in, scanned him, then mentioned Ironhide's worry as Jazz came to the last floor.

Am I security risk? Jazz demanded, pausing at the lift door.

No, you're clear. RedAlert hesitated. I've felt you this angry before. You killed two mechs each time.

That was before I was promoted, Jazz growled. Am I clear to go?

...yes.

Jazz went down the hall of officer's row, stopping at the Prime's quarters. The door was open. Ironhide was standing, rifle unslung but his finger off the trigger.

"He's inside," Ironhide said. "He's waiting."

Jazz didn't acknowledge. The next door was open, but out of habit, he waited to be invited

"Come in, Jazz."

Swallowing once, Jazz obeyed.

The office was clear of all decorations or ornamentation. Just a workstation and several datapads, all of them in various levels of illumination, piled before Optimus as he worked. When Jazz entered, Optimus put down his datapad and looked up.

Jazz came to the center of the room. Took a long vent to steady himself. And Optimus took the moment to study him. Both RedAlert and Ironhide had warned him of Jazz's anger, but Optimus saw the scuffs and scrapes of a fight. The slight warping that came from sonic attacks. Trembling hands. Strained shoulders. Tense frame. Jazz readjusted the visor where it had slipped—keenly aware that it shielded his optics.

Optimus relaxed. Where his mechs had seen anger, Optimus found hurt.

Jazz started. "You knew."

Optimus let out a vent he'd been holding, and his shoulders dipped slightly. He didn't have to ask.

"I...suspected they would try to get your attention. I didn't think they would botch whatever they did so badly."

Jazz glared at the floor, rocked by a short, sharp vent. He glared back at his Prime.

"What should I do?"

Optimus shook his helm once. "No mech can say what choice you should—"

"No, Optimus. No." Jazz swallowed once. "Tell me what to do."

Oh.

Optimus recognized his look. He'd seen that devotion often enough to know it, but every time a mech looked up at him with that reverence, that kind of trust, he was forcibly reminded that he held a very different place in their sparks than that of a military commander. His soldiers would walk into hell for him. His officers would follow him for another millenia of war if he said to. And his left hand, his Third in Command, now looked to something deeper in Optimus than the mere Matrix, waiting for a commandment.

Optimus stood, approached Jazz. Put his hands around Jazz's shoulders. He couldn't read minds, but he felt the raw nerves of Jazz's systems straining at the edge of control.

"Whatever it is you do," Optimus said, "whether it's acceptance or refusal—take whatever it is you feel and drag it into the light. So that tomorrow you can look yourself in the mirror with your helm held high."

Jazz stared up at him for a long moment. His mouth parted slightly. His vents—had he been panting so hard?—slowed to something manageable. The anger still boiled but began to change into plans and choices.

"That's...that's gonna be a hell of a tall order, bossbot."

Optimus smiled. His Third slowly regained control over himself, and Optimus loosened his grip, giving him a small jostle.

"I'd expect nothing less from a mech who names himself Jazz."

Tbc...