Yeah, yeah, yeah, Nine Inch Nails originally did this song. I like this version better and the lyrics are... slightly different. Anyway, enjoy! There are still mysteries to be unraveled.

I wear this crown of thorns
Upon my liar's chair
Full of broken thoughts
I cannot repair
Beneath the stains of time
The feelings disappear
You are someone else
I am still right here

What have I become
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know goes away
In the end
And you could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt

-Johnny Cash

He remembered rain, the sting of acid as the stray drops hit his armor, peeling paint and corroding metal. He remembered being too sick, too tired and too broken to move, huddling further under his mesh blanket to try and shield himself from the elements. Optics had closed behind his cracked visor in an attempt to sleep the pain away until his next opportunity.

But then someone had said his name.

"Meister?"

A hand slapped him across the face and he yanked back to consciousness, a strangled cry escaping him before he was present enough to stop it. Water dripped onto his helm and he jerked away from it, expecting to feel the sting any moment. Something wasn't right. His glossa darted out to taste it as it trailed close to the corner of his mouth. Salt and brine. Ocean water, not acid. For a moment, that confused him until a hand closed around the back of his neck and yanked.

"Try it again, Soundwave."

He felt a hand on his helm, scanners prickling his processor before searing pain tore through it, like a dozen connections had all shorted out, sparking in agonizing pops inside of his helm. Only long practice kept him from screaming as his entire frame tensed, testing the strength of the bonds that held his arms pinned to his sides. Unfortunately, they held.

The barrage seemed to last forever, and the whole time, the pain stayed new, unpredictable, shifting and moving through his helm in a way that kept him off balanced and unable to acclimate. Soundwave had gotten better since the last time he'd tried, but better wasn't good enough. Jazz didn't even have to try to block him out—not really. There were no advanced techniques of resisting interrogation here. No, the signal dampener around Soundwave's very spark did the hard work for him. The only thing he had to focus on was keeping his screams contained, all the while enjoying the inkling of guilt that radiated through the one-sided bond.

Finally, the attack ended and Jazz sucked in a deep breath of damp air, his shaking frame streaked with coolant. Without his visor, he couldn't see which way they were coming, so he stayed hunched and kneeling, frame tense even as he turned his audio feed up to hear them better. A whir of gears and a fist cracked against the back of his helm, making his blind optics spark with imagined visual feed for just a moment. His head drooped, unconsciousness threatening to overtake him again, and he welcomed it like an old friend.

Blurred optics looked up, squinting through the static and cracks in his visor. A blue hand reached out for him and he curled up a little tighter, face burying back under his rag as he tried to hide his shame. The hand cupped his cheek, guiding his head up and the rain stopped, blocked by the presence above him.

"Meister, relapsed," a voice said and he was gently pulled to his feet. Something settled over his shoulders and helm, blocking him from the acid that rained from the sky and enveloping him in a blanket of warmth. Even as his chilled frame welcomed the heat, a cold pit of guilt settled in his tanks.

The word cut deeper than he thought possible, slicing through the Crystal induced haze that he had welcomed again so readily. He had failed. And like fate, here he was—the only mech who had worked to help him was seeing him at his lowest. A quiet sigh escaped the blue mech and arms enveloped him in a gentle embrace, sliding around his waist and back, holding him like a treasure.

"Come. Soundwave will help," he had said. "Soundwave will always help."

"Why isn't it working?" a voice snarled, echoing inside of his head as consciousness returned to him once more. He was finally able to recognize it as Vortex.

Jazz managed a smirk. "Your telepath's broken," he said hoarsely.

Vortex's pede caught him in the abdomen this time. Jazz's vents stalled at the impact and he listed to the side without even registering his change in position. The next moment, his shoulder connected with the ground, vents wheezing as they tried to catch up.

"Desist," Soundwave said, and though he couldn't see the mech, he could tell he was angry. Exactly what he was angry at was uncertain. A scuffle of metal against metal registered to Jazz's audios for just a moment before Soundwave said, more harshly this time, "Desist."

"If you would just let me have a minute alone with him, I could break him!" Vortex snapped. "There wouldn't be a speck of knowledge left in his processor that we couldn't get to!"

"Unnecessary," Soundwave said. "Soundwave will find an alternative way."

Vortex scoffed. "Whatever," he said, obviously annoyed at having to share his domain with anyone else. "You get to tell Megatron that he's still locked up tighter than a Vosian safe then."

Jazz heard the helicopter's distinct footsteps retreat, his clicking rotors creating a strange rhythm to his steps. He lay tense as the distant door closed, unable to catch anything from Soundwave other than the quiet whirr of his vents. A hand closed around his shoulder and pulled him to a sitting position. Something brushed against his face and he jerked back, nearly toppling himself over again, but Soundwave held him firmly.

"Be still," he ordered.

"Choke on a spike," Jazz retorted and threw his head back as Soundwave touched his face again, so very close to his milky white optics. Despite his best efforts, something slid into the ports on his temples and his sight returned with a quick burst of data as his visor synched up with his system. Soundwave's face was right in front of him as his vision returned and the blue mech snapped his fingers directly in front of his optics. Still disoriented and in pain, Jazz jumped back instinctively.

Soundwave nodded in approval before reaching behind him and unlocking the cuffs around his wrists and upper arms. They clattered to the floor and Jazz barely managed to suppress a shiver as the blue mech stood, hands gripping Jazz under his arm to pull him up as well. His legs didn't seem to want to support him and he stumbled, warnings popping up on his HUD to remind him how low on energy he was. Soundwave stood like a wall at his side and half carried, half dragged him out of the damp and cold interrogation room. Jazz's head hung limply, visor dim and unfocused as he was led back to his cell once more.

He had been trained to withstand interrogation. He'd been taught to deal with pain, energy redlines, psychological games. He knew self-aid, meditation, system bypasses—countless techniques to keep himself strong and calm. But as Soundwave's hand brushed over his back as he nudged him into his cell, it was all forgotten. He was an addict once more, shuddering with withdrawal and searching for the only comfort and relief he had known, and it took every ounce of strength he had to walk away from the mech and into his cell once more.

"Cliffjumper?"

The red minibot walked into Prowl's office without preamble. "We need to talk, sir," he said quietly.

Prowl rarely dealt with the hotheaded mech—he was part of Ironhide's unit, so why he was here now was a mystery to him. "Concerning what?" he asked and motioned for the mech to have a seat.

Cliffjumper lowered himself into the chair. "Concerning Jazz," he said.

Prowl looked at him in surprise. "You have my full attention," he said and blacked his computer screen, hiding his latest report.

Cliffjumper sighed and ran a hand over his helm, looking suddenly uncertain. "Your office is secure, isn't it?" he asked, though something about his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

Prowl frowned curiously. "Of course," he said. With the amount of top secret information he sifted through on a daily basis, even Red Alert didn't have any security devices inside of his office. "Why?"

"Because I'm not comfortable sharing this and I'd prefer it to stay between us," he said. Prowl waited patiently, folding his hands in front of him as Cliffjumper fidgeted. The red mech rubbed the back of his helm. "Do you know what I did before the war?" he asked.

Prowl's door wings twitched, thinking back to all the mechs he had screened for the Ark crew. He remembered that Jazz had suggested bringing Cliffjumper over from the Xanthium. "You were a military mech. You enlisted a few vorns before the war broke out in earnest."

Cliffjumper nodded. "True," he said. "But before that, I was a bartender in Iacon. And one of my most frequent customers was a mech named Meister." Prowl sat up a little straighter, his doorwings hitching high with interest. "And I see that name's familiar to you." Prowl nodded and Cliffjumper sighed. "Look… I knew Meister when the war was just a small uprising in Kaon." He hesitated before adding, "I knew Meister before Soundwave."

Prowl's processor stalled. "You know," he breathed.

Cliffjumper nodded and relaxed a little. "And you know too—or you guessed," he said.

Prowl nodded and rubbed his helm. "Ratchet and I pieced it together," he said. "Or, we thought we did. It was mostly speculation—we had hoped we were wrong. There are just… so many pieces missing."

Cliffjumper nodded. "Maybe I can fill in a couple," he said. "I'm… slag it, Jazz is going to murder me for telling you—I'm Jazz's handler."

Prowl's optics widened further. "You're not Special Operations," he said.

Cliffjumper gave a wry grin. "Not according to the roster, no. But Jazz didn't request for me to follow him over from the Xanthium because I'm an excellent front-liner," he said with a snort. "I've known Jazz since he was a musician under the thumb of two very controlling Creators. He knew he could trust me with his secrets—hell, I was his confidant while a lot of it was going down."

Prowl rubbed his helm. Handlers were usually reserved for mechs who went deep undercover—mechs who took on a different set of coding to be able to completely blend into enemy territory. Their handler kept their original memories and core programming safe, ready to trigger it when the operative returned from their mission. It was someone they had to trust intrinsically, and for the safety of both mechs, the handler's identity was usually kept a secret. Cliffjumper was so unassuming—he had been the perfect choice.

Jazz used to do such in-depth work, back in the early parts of the war. He had been an excellent infiltrator and Autobot double agent until one trip to Tarn had violently ended that part of his career. But having access to Jazz's memories meant that Cliffjumper knew everything.

"What can you tell me?" Prowl asked, processor weighed down by so much new information. A part of him knew that it was only going to get worse.

Cliffjumper sighed and sat back in his chair. "Primus, that's a loaded question… I guess I'll start from the beginning."

I met Meister when he was on his last tour in Iacon. He'd stumbled into my bar, visor missing, dent on his face and scraped knuckles—he'd gotten into a fight of some sort and he needed a sympathetic audio, so I gave it. It was a slow night and he seemed like he had a story to tell.

I had no idea who he was. I certainly wasn't high caste and that was the crowd he played for. But as we talked more, it all came out. Meister, renowned composer, musical savant and non-newtonium player had just walked out of a performance at the Iacon Towers and was now sitting in my bar, chatting my audio off. He talked about his creators and how he'd just gotten into a knock down fight with them after he'd walked off stage. He talked about how his creators had kept him locked to his work, about how it was practice and performance, one after another, his creators pushing and bullying him to preform and be their ticket into a higher caste. He talked about how he'd never had a single day of freedom in his life.

I felt bad for him. He wasn't too much younger than I was at the time and he just… seemed so lonely. Like he'd never really had anyone to just vent to. So I listened and I talked and, well, we kept that tradition going, night after night. After that last performance, he stuck around Iacon for a while and against my better judgment, I gave him a place to stay until he got back on his feet. It didn't take him too long to get his credit and savings accounts transferred back to him and Primus, did he have a bit of coin to spend. Being a top musician in those days must have been lucrative. He made sure he paid me back for every cube of energon he'd drank, every night he'd stayed at my place.

I had never met someone who was so excited about having such… a basic freedom. He was so naïve back then—and yet he had a thirst to learn and see everything. And he had absolutely no shame about wiggling into places he didn't belong. Primus, while he was still in Iacon, he not only managed to sneak his way into the military headquarters, but he visited mechs in the medical ward after that nasty rust breakout happened! I bailed him out for trespassing and Peacekeeper evasion more times than I can remember—I'm sure you came across those little blips on his record. He was like a storm unleashed—all that intelligence and curiosity had been pent up for so long, and now that he had freedom, he didn't give a slag about consequences. He did whatever he felt like and dealt with the repercussions as they came—that is if he couldn't wiggle his way out of them first.

He became… amazingly adept at sweet talking his way out of a bad situation. I think it came from having to impress and dance around higher caste mechs. He and his family were from a middle caste so his entire life, he'd been taught how to charm and ingratiate himself with mechs of a better position. It paid off during his run-ins with the Peacekeepers—I'm convinced he managed to talk his way out of most of the things he'd been charged with. Smooth slagger.

But nearly a vorn after he walked out of his last performance, his curiosity had spread towards the rest of the planet. He was a little nervous, but I egged him on—I told him to get out of Iacon, get away from his creation-city and see what the rest of the world had to offer. So… he did. He left one day and I didn't see him for vorns. I was a little nervous about unleashing him on the world… I didn't even think about what the world could do to him. I'd get a note from him every-so-often to check in or a comm. to have him try and convince me to come down to Polyhex for a race or Kaon for a gladiatorial match, but I didn't see him until he came back to Iacon one day.

And Primus, let me tell you, it was a very different mech that showed up at my door.

Meister was closed off, anxious, evasive even. Not at all his usual happy-go-lucky self. Primus, he even sounded different. He used to have such a proper Iacon accent but now he had this… Altihexian twang mixed with a Praxus cadence. I could tell he'd spent a lot of time in the Southwestern states and he confirmed it when I asked. But something seemed so… off about him.

I… wouldn't tell you this part of the story if it wasn't important. Jazz doesn't like anyone to know about this point—I think he tries to forget it himself most of the time. I still feel partially responsible… I had sent this naïve little Iaconian out to fend for himself, and I could tell he'd run into trouble. I just didn't realize how much until he tried to sneak a fix behind my back.

The mech had gotten hooked on Crystal during his time in Altihex. Worst part was, he denied it—said it was something that he only did when he needed to relax. But I saw how his hands shook, saw how his moods changed when he went too long without it, how angry he got when I mentioned it. He was hooked and hooked badly and he wasn't about to take a bit of my help. We… ended that meeting on a bad note. I never thought I'd see him again—all my comms. went unanswered, my messages ignored. I thought he was dead or worse for nearly four vorns.

The Decepticon revolt picked up during that time and after the rebellions started in Kaon in Tarn, I enlisted with the Autobots. I thought about him a lot, wondered where he was—if he was in Kaon or one of the other Southern city-states that had gotten so… turbulent lately. And just when I thought I'd about given up hope of seeing him again, he showed up.

He seemed so much better then—healthy, clear-headed, happy. He seemed mature, hardened almost—I could tell that the Crystal had taken its toll on him. His visor hid it, but I could tell just by looking at him that he'd seen and done things he'd regret for the rest of his life. Even so, I'd never seen a bigger grin on his face. He apologized for everything—he admitted how wrong he was, how messed up he had been the last time we had talked. I forgave him—I was just relieved to see him again, and I had never seen him so happy.

He said he'd met someone.

He called him his Professor. Said he taught communications technologies at the Altihex Military Academy. He said that he was to thank for helping Meister get clean after nearly two vorns of addiction. Meister told me all about him. He told me that he was a carrier mech by the name of Soundwave and that his adopted symbiote had found Jazz in an alley, injured and leaking after a bad fight had left him with a hole through his shoulder.

Now, this is my own speculation—but I think Soundwave has a special place in his spark for broken things. Carrier mechs are nurturing like that and it fits with what I know of Soundwave. He adopted Ravage after his creator and carrier died, leaving him on the brink of death. I think that same carrier protocol kicked in when he saw Meister for the first time. As much as I hate the mech now… I was grateful towards him at the time. He had helped Meister—he'd gotten him clean and kept him that way. He very well may have saved his life.

And Meister, well… Meister was smitten. I've never seen a mech more in love than he was. I don't think he'd ever really even experienced what love could be before he met Soundwave. His creators certainly never gave it to him and he never took any other lovers, as far as I know. I wasn't surprised when Meister told me they were going to bond... but I was surprised he told me that they couldn't.

That's the thing about telepaths—there's only been the one. Soundwave is a testament to how our technology is advancing—he's the next step in Cybertronian technology… but it also means that there's so much unknown about what they can and can't do. Meister and Soundwave experienced it all first-hand and it nearly crushed them when they found out.

Telepaths can't bond. They can scan electrical currents, radio waves—signals so minute and encrypted that they can literally read a mech's though pattern… but bonds consist of combining two sparks and minds—merging two different spark signatures into one. Bonds are, essentially, a body-link. Thoughts, emotions, pains can all be transferred through that bond connection, once it's made… but forging that connection was too much for Soundwave. He's too sensitive towards those little nuances and fluctuations that doing something as intense as forging a bond just… shut him down. The onslaught of sensory data just overloaded his system— forced him into a reboot or made him blackout for a period.

They tried again and again, but no matter what they did, it couldn't be done… but Soundwave's resourceful. There's only one person who's equipped to deal with his condition and that's him. He found a solution—or a partial one at least. He created a device… Meister described it to me as a signal dampener that is tuned against his unique frequency. It acts as a barrier for Soundwave—blocking out the sensory data Meister lets off.

And it worked… they created this sort of half-bond. Soundwave is completely shut off from Jazz—it's why he's not able to read his processor. But Jazz… Jazz feels everything that Soundwave does. For him, it's like a regular bond—he catches thoughts and emotions from him, though over the years, Soundwave's learned to block himself out more and more. The signal dampener doesn't allow him to shut off the bond—not like a normal bond could. Soundwave… adapted in a different way. He never wore a voice synth, had a visor only when he needed it—he used to smile, used to feel. He's conditioned himself not to do that anymore. Whatever Jazz feels from him now—it's a rare time when Soundwave experiences a strong enough emotion that Jazz feels the echoes.

As much as he denied it at the time, as much as he said he was satisfied, I knew that Meister wanted a full bond with him. I can't say how glad I am that they never managed it. He moved to Altihex to live with Soundwave. I never thought I'd see the day that he settled down, but he did. They built a family. They created Rumble and Frenzy. He visited from time to time, but never for long and it was usually on business—he started helping Soundwave with communications work, learning the technical side of detecting and couriering various channels for various clients. That was the happiest I ever saw him… or have seen him since. They were together for over three vorns before Kaon was taken by the Decepticons.

That's when things started to go south.

Soundwave started frequenting Tarn for work, spending a couple breems there at a time while Meister stayed in Altihex. I don't think Meister realized who Soundwave was taking work for at the time—or if he did, he didn't care. He was unaffiliated at the time—he knew mechs from all different castes, had lived a very… diverse life than most mechs. I never thought he would choose a side.

And for a long time, I thought he hadn't— I had been relocated to the battle in Tarn at the time, where I met you for the first time, actually. I was out of touch with him and it wasn't until later that he told me what he had been up to. He changed his paint job and name—he started going by Jazz. Soundwave wiped part of his records, added a few details here and there to give him a more appealing background. He started working as a civilian contractor in Tarn for a short while before being transferred to Iacon HQ, doing odd jobs here and there. He started talking to the right people. After Sentinel Prime was assassinated, he suddenly became buddy-buddy with Zeta Prime—started working directly under him. Primus, to this day I have no idea how he managed to talk himself into such a position, but he did.

I had no idea this was going on—I was in Tarn fighting a battle for the city. I was the only person on the planet who could have maybe stopped those early info leaks, but I was in the wrong place and in the dark. Besides, who would have believed me? I was just some enlisted front-liner while Jazz was the new favorite of the Prime and his council. Pit, I don't know if I would have even recognized him—so many black and white mechs of his model, even a small change is enough to throw me off, let alone a full repaint.

He was a Decepticon in everything but the records. Soundwave started wearing the insignia sometime around then, I think, working openly for Megatron. Any records of their bond had been wiped—if they had ever existed in the first place. Jazz later told me that their bond… looks different on his spark. It looks broken—and that was the excuse he used. Jazz claimed he'd been mated for a short time and had lost his mate in the early rebellions. No one ever thought to question it.

Jazz continued his work, getting deeper and deeper into Autobot command, joining the ranks under… special circumstances from Zeta. I think you met him shortly after—when you were transferred to Iacon as a Junior Tactical Specialist, right? Did you ever suspect anything? No, we wouldn't be here now if you had—if anyone had.

Things went exactly how Soundwave wanted for quite a while. Jazz was his agent in Autobot HQ—relaying pertinent information without anyone being the wiser. He was the perfect double agent and when he started worming his way into Autobot Special Operations, well… it only got easier. He started working as an infiltrator, a sleeper agent among the Decepticons. But all it really did was put him back in proximity with Soundwave again. He walked the line between the two factions, spreading choice pieces of information to each.

Jazz told me that it was around this time he started having doubts, second thoughts about what he was doing. Against his better judgment, he'd made friends among the Autobots. It was harder for him to pass along information. It was the start of a gradual change.

I got slagged in Tarn— badly slagged when a mortar hit our camp. They didn't know if I was going to live or not and they sent me to Iacon's med center in forced stasis to see if there was anything they could do. Jazz said he saw me there, missing half of my body, spark exposed—he said that the reality of what he was doing kinda… crashed down on him.

He was playing with mech's lives. He was betraying the friends he had made to a cause he wasn't entirely sure he agreed with. Suddenly, he started thinking a lot harder about what information he passed on, leaving choice info out of his reports to Soundwave and spreading good info to the Autobots. He dealt with the guilt and the uncertainty for quite a while—nearly a full vorn if I remember. Soundwave, to his knowledge, didn't suspect anything—why would he? His mate would never betray him.

It wasn't until Praxus that Jazz made up his mind. It wasn't until he went and saw the destruction of the city for himself that he knew he was playing for the wrong team. The… wanton destruction he saw there, the senseless slaughter. He thought back to all the information he'd passed along and wondered how big of a part he had played in the deaths of so many. He helped find Bluestreak in the rubble of the city and took him to Iacon.

He was supposed to stay in Kaon for a time, but he left to get Bluestreak to safety. You know that part of the story—Jazz came to you first when he got back. He knew he needed to get back to Kaon soon though, he knew he didn't have much time—he came up with a story, an excuse for his absence and even though he was warned against going back by multiple people, he still did it.

He won't tell me what happened here—refuses to speak about it at all. I'm a little ashamed to admit that I tried to look at the copy of his memory files, but he's even blocked it on there, so I don't know what went down during those cycles where he returned to Kaon. All I know is that he didn't reappear until after the Cataclysm, and when he did, it was at the Autobot camp near Polyhex.

He was just… wrecked. Reports say that he was beat to slag—armor panels ripped off, audios blown, only half of his visor functioning. They said he wouldn't speak to anyone, barely let anyone touch him except for Ratchet. I know you read those reports—you had him flown back to Iacon for repairs and debrief, didn't you? You saw what he was like. He was… changed. Even now, I'll catch that haunted look on his face and you know he's remembering it—remembering every detail of what Soundwave must have done to him.

I... I know this is a lot to take in, but I promise you, Prowl. That mech has no loyalty to the Decepticons. I think that the only reason he ever did was because of Soundwave... and that loyalty died a long time ago.

Cliffjumper's voice trailed off and he looked at the edge of Prowl's desk, almost like he was afraid of meeting his optics. Prowl was silent, his processor running memory after memory, scenario after scenario to try and deny what the mech was telling him, but every cross reference came back clean. It was like seeing the finish product of a puzzle he hadn't realized he'd been doing— it all fit too perfectly to deny. Everything he thought he knew about Jazz, about a mech he had considered one of his closest friends, had effectively been shattered.

It was a long moment before he spoke. "Why did you never come forward with this information before?" he asked.

Cliffjumper rubbed the back of his neck. "I follow Jazz," he said quietly. "Just like Mirage and Bumblebee—they report to him first and you, even Optimus second. It's the nature of Special Operations... and it's always been the nature of our friendship." He swallowed and for the first time since he came into Prowl's office, he lifted his head and met his optics. "But I want him back as badly as you do. And I feel like you knowing is the only way that that's going to happen."

Prowl pinched the bridge of his nose as he leaned back in his chair. The weight of the information seemed to settle on his shoulders, tugging his doorwings down a few degrees and forcing him deeper into his chair. It seemed like the effort of standing up was not worth it—not until he could sort through his own thoughts and conflicting emotions and loyalties, but the pressing matter was still sitting in front of him.

"Jazz was afraid we would find out," Prowl said, not as a question.

Cliffjumper nodded. "Terrified," he said. "He was a traitor… even if that was a lifetime ago. He was afraid you would turn on him. Is he right?"

Prowl looked at the mech sharply. Cliffjumper was sitting a little straighter, optics hard and mouth drawn into a thin line. It was almost startling—under the tough persona, he could tell that Cliffjumper was just as scared, terrified of the thought that he might have just condemned his friend to prison or, even worse, spark isolation. More had been done to traitors in the past for lesser offenses.

It had been a gamble for Cliffjumper to come here and speak to him about these matters. Prowl was the picture of decorum, the strictest upholder of Autobot laws and policies other than, perhaps, Ultra Magnus. He realized just how much trust the mech must have in him... or how desperate he was to get his friend back to the Ark safely.

Prowl was compelled to give an answer, but this was not his jurisdiction. It was a question only Optimus could rightfully answer. But Optimus wasn't here and Optimus didn't know what Prowl currently did about his college and the Autobot third in command. Logic told him to call Prime in immediately, share this knowledge with the mech it needed to be heard by, but the small part of Prowl that still worked off of emotion hesitated. He suddenly knew what it was like to be Cliffjumper right now, felt the fear of holding a secret so powerful that it could condemn another mech to death or worse if it was shared with the wrong person. Optimus had labeled Jazz a traitor, stripped him of his rank until he could safely rest the weight of the Autobots on him again. Sharing this information with him now could possibly make that sentence permanent.

"Of course not," Prowl finally said, voice strained. "Jazz is still my friend and a... trusted colleague." It was hard to say it, after his trust had been rattled so badly, but one fact still remained: if Jazz hadn't cut off all ties from the Decepticons, become the Autobot that Prowl had believed him to be, they wouldn't be having this conversation now. The war would have ended a long, long time ago, and not in their favor.

"Our priorities have not changed," Prowl said. "First, we get Jazz back."