It's been too long, I know. Life and other stories have gotten in the way. It's been a killer wanting to write for this story and never finding the proper time to do so. With May We Never Let Go now up- the sequel to the War Eternal story As We Come Together- now posted, my heart's been aching for that story. Hopefully, if there's still love out there for this, I'll try harder to focus on it in the future. ^_^

As a special note, the sexy one-shot I promised if this story reached 200 reviews in 8 chapters as been posted, since you guys were so awesome and rose to the challenge of all those reviews. The one-shot is called Addicted to You, and for those who haven't had a chance to enjoy it yet, I hope you do so!

My most sincere thanks to all the amazing reviewers of last chapter. Your love for this story is humbling and your patience in waiting for this long overdue chapter is amazing. Much love to: shadowblade-tara, FoghornLeghorn83, flamingmarsh, ShimmeringJade, ShadowedBlossom, renegadewriter8, Optimus Bob, Peacewish, KageOkami666, smoking caramels, Anon, Gatekat, Marinelife37, PrancingTiger86, Faecat, phoebe turner, Jinx, Refracted Imagination, Bluebird Soaring, Elita One, Shinigami-sama1, Uniasus, Mirage Shinkiro, Remenyke, Queen of the Red Skittle, Chloo, won't be the Victim, Independent C, Lecidre, FunkyFish1991, BoredTech, and Shi-Koi!

My love to you all! Read, Review, & Enjoy! ^_^

Chapter 9

The observation deck... it was strange how often Jazz was finding himself there so often, especially recently. Or maybe it wasn't such a mystery. He knew why he was going there, but the reasoning behind it irked him. He was bored. More than bored, really- he was disgustingly, ridiculously, heinously BORED. And the reason he was bored irked him even more than any other reason he might have for any other thousand things going on in his head: Prowl was not in Iacon base. Pit, he wasn't even in Iacon the territory.

Prowl was away on a mission to Polyhex- armed in information Jazz had supplied him with, no less- which left Jazz to his own devices in Iacon.

Normally, this was excuse enough to wreak all sorts of havoc, yet all the saboteur could bring himself to do was wallow in a boredom so consuming that he felt neurons dying because of it. With the cybercat away, the glitchmouse should have been able to play, but Jazz didn't even bother.

Oh yes, he still indulged in some of his harmless hobbies- relentlessly terrorizing the Autobots of Iacon while they lived, worked, and recharged. It counted as harmless in his mind because no one died, though he had a feeling the Autobots were none too pleased with him. They usually weren't, so no big deal. What did take the joy out of widespread panic and disorder? The fact that there was no stalwart glare of exasperation and irritation awaiting at the end of it. Without Prowl around to deliver his usual spiel of reprimands, there hardly was any satisfaction in forcing Red Alert into a meltdown or throwing Ratchet into a fire-breathing tantrum. What was the point of tormenting someone when no reward would come of it?

Currently, Jazz tapped his forehead against the cool glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows he was standing in front of.

Shouldn't he feel horrified that he considered pissing Prowl off a reward? Shouldn't the terror and pandemonium he wilfully incited be reward enough? Before he'd sunk into his current Autobot-saturated funk, terror and pandemonium had always had a way of cheering him up.

What kind of sick and twisted world had Jazz landed himself in when he'd rather be good than be dragged off and scolded by someone other than Prowl? That was just... wrong. Sick and wrong.

He wracked his mind for the answer to a question he could barely contemplate. What was happening to him? Why this fixation on Prowl? For all the accumulated knowledge he had gathered throughout his too long life, he was offered no prize. No relief from the mystery. Frustration rode him as precious answers eluded him. Why was it that Prowl seemed to be the only being alive to confound him to such an extent?

The irony of the situation was not lost on the saboteur, either; one of the most logical creatures he had ever encountered also being among the most confusing. Primus, if he existed, could go frag himself for all the headaches he was currently giving one particular saboteur.

Jazz, of course, was smart enough to recognize his interest in Prowl's abilities, his mind, the value he presented as a figure that refused to bow or break... For the life of him, Jazz could not name the curious sense of mind that became apparent when he was about to do something that Prowl would disapprove of and suddenly found no desire to carry through with Prowl physically being there to reprimand him.

This... preference, for he had no other word to call the compulsion, went beyond all other previous interests he'd ever harboured.

Interest in bots generally meant Jazz was scheming to break them. He was entertained by them like toys, and he could easily toss them aside when he was done with them. That was a comfortable, familiar, even welcomed feeling of transient occupation. But Prowl? Interest never waned. He always remained at the back of the saboteur's mind. Lurking there. Taunting him. Jazz even found himself considering the mech whenever he was faced with a specific decision- generally the kinds of choices that meant sending Iacon into a panic-induced lockdown or leaving it to quietly rest. More often than not, Jazz was leaving the Autobots to rest. He was finding less and less joy in fragging with them.

In Prowl's absence, Jazz had even donned a tracking collar for the tactician's peace of mind. NOT for the rest of Iacon's peace of mind. No, never that. Even if the tracking collar was an insult, even if he could have it off in a matter of astroseconds, he endured the slander of it simply because... because Prowl had asked. The mere asking has been an experience in humiliation for them both. They were well aware of the ineffectiveness one such device would have on Jazz should the saboteur desire to do something wicked. All he had to do was think it and he could get the collar off. There had never been an orn in his life when Jazz had ever worn something so caging, confining; degrading and insulting. Yet Prowl had asked, knowing how much of an insult he was delivering, how much of a sacrifice he was asking for... The tactician had even shown pity, offering to place Jazz under house arrest instead for the duration of the mission so Jazz wouldn't have to endure the slander.

For whatever reason, Jazz had taken the collar.

It was a sick and wrong twist of fate. If he ended up thinking about it too much, it made him extremely uncomfortable. To willingly submit to another. To acquiesce to one of their requests. To consider someone else's peace of mind above his own... He suffered the vague sense of wanting to purge. He desired to make his way to the wash racks and scrub himself clean of such a feeling.

How long had it been since he'd felt dirty over anything? He'd raped minds, mutilated bodies, ravaged sparks with less trouble. He recharged at night with no disturbance to his conscience. To live for what he wanted, what he needed, and what he desired- that was his way of life. It was all he knew. All he was taught.

To live for another... Jazz curled his mouthplates in distaste. No, not live for another. Merely... considering another... It left him sick inside.

Acting like this... it wasn't him. It wasn't what he'd been taught. He should care only for himself. He should live only for his own survival. Only his own wants, needs, and gratification should matter. He should be free to do whatever suited him the most, no one else. There was no one else in his world that mattered. Living as long as he had, he knew to care for anyone but himself was a mistake. Sparks were like burning embers on the wind- too soon did they blow out and fade away. It was smartest to care nothing for anyone. Their lives, even as long lived as they were, were still nothing but a drop of time to him.

And yet... there was Prowl.

So short a time here, a blink of an optic to him, and he was breaking his own rules?

His claws rose to his neck, touching the band of metal that rested there.

Evidence of something he had no name for, baldly there for everyone to see. Like a neon sign.

In his mind, every night when he recharged, every moment while he was awake and let his thoughts wander, he relived that moment outside the Straxis compound:

"Come with me."

"Ah'm not cut out ta be an Autobot."

"You're smart. You'll learn."

"...alright, Ah'll give it a try."

That was probably why he found himself spending joors in the observation deck, watching the world around him. He didn't want to think about what was happening to him. Changes were taking place, and he wasn't sure that he liked them all. Things were different from how they once were. He was different.

For once, he wanted his mind to go completely blank. He wanted no thoughts to haunt him. Wanted no possibilities to taunt him. Absolute silence was all he asked for. The rare moment when the storm receded, racing thoughts slowed to a trickle, and the blur of wildly spinning world came into focus. He wanted the perfect silence of frozen time.

He didn't get what he asked for, but was relatively close.

The dark of night had set in long ago, a veil of quiet settling over Iacon. The corridors were mostly silent, aside from the occasional tread of metal feet. The observation deck where he lurked hosted very little company to disturb him. He would have liked it empty so there would be nothing and no one there to disturb him, but Jazz was becoming accustomed to accepting the ultimatums fate was thrusting at him as of late.

Bluestreak was in the far corner, curled up in a chair. Even in the shadows, it was easy to tell the sniper was passed out cold. Empty cubes of potent high-grade surrounded him. He did that occasionally, Jazz had come to understand. Sometimes Bluestreak would trade Sideswipe for some of his most potent high-grade, then he would find a quiet place to drink himself into oblivion. He was the only survivor of the Crystal City massacre, living with the horrific memories every orn because he refused to allow them to be deleted. High-grade was one of his few escapes. Jazz suspected talking incessantly was another.

Jazz's only other company in the room was the threesome cozied up behind him. They were a collective flash of fiery red that materialized in the periphery every once in a while. Inferno's deep, rumbling voice mixed with Red Alert's chirping, weaved together by Firestar's sultry tones. They sounded like they were having quite a lovely time together. Their whispering intimate, teasing.

The femme was actually supposed to be Jazz's "keeper" for the evening. Without Prowl in Iacon to "keep Jazz in line", he had been given into the care of the Femme Division. A elite task force unto themselves, they did not answer to the Prime but to his sparkmate, Elita One. With the advantage of their frames being specifically built for power, speed, and agility, each femme under Elita's command was a finely tuned weapon. Much like the Decepticon femmes, they were a force to be reckoned with. Vicious fighters. Ruthless in battle. Not to be messed with.

Jazz commended the Autobots for understanding that if they wanted him guarded, then only the very best would do. He was a smart enough mech to admit that even he was wary to go head-to-head with a femme. From what he understood, Firestar was among one of the best, when she wanted to be. Currently, her concern was not for Jazz. She was content to murmur quietly with her lovers, allowing Jazz "private time" at the windows.

So Jazz did as Firestar silently invited him to do; he pretended she wasn't there and immersed himself in the world beyond the window.

He had been here so long, the Decepticons were no longer attacking the base. Their efforts to capture him had wasted too much time and resources, especially when Jazz ratted out their hiding spots whenever they got too annoying. Now the night was quiet. Bright, but quiet. So many lights reflecting off of so much metal. And beyond the lights of Iacon laid a rusted landscape, twisted and scarred beyond repair. Scenery he was familiar with now, though not necessarily comfortable with it. He was still disconcerted every time he looked out a window to see he was in the spark of an Autobot base. He lived on an Autobot base, now. No denying it. He used their resources. Walked their corridors freely (sort of). He even had a room now, though it was little more than an annexed storage room nearest Wheeljack's labs. No one said the reasons he was moved there, but it was obvious nonetheless; there was nothing Jazz could do to the base down there that Wheeljack hadn't already done worse.

Every faceplate he looked into, he saw Autobots- with the possible exceptions of Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, who were hard to pin down as truly Autobot or Decepticon. He was surrounded by Autobots; every faceplate he saw out the window, every bot lingering in the courtyard. The whole lot of them Autobots. And as if that weren't bad enough, Jazz could put a designation to each faceplate now, too. Not only designations, but he knew their work schedule, their behaviours, even some of their personal likes and dislikes...

He was getting to know them.

No. Jazz shook his head, scowling. He didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to think about any of them.

Blank mind. No thoughts. Just stand and stare at the world and let his thoughts be nothing. Like the night sky, endlessly black. Empty. Quiet.

The door hissed open behind him, a sharp staccato of footsteps announcing the entrance of a new bot. Jazz scanned the spark resonance of the newcomer out of habit, tensing when he learned who it was.

"Firestar, you're relieved of duty," Chromia announced, her raspy voice carrying throughout the room. She did not have a vocal processor made for whispering.

Firestar snapped up from her spot lounging across Inferno and Red Alert's laps. "Chromia, my shift isn't over-."

The other femme waved a hand, cutting her subordinate off. "It looks like you hardly begun your shift, anyways," she pointed out with a hard look cast in Inferno and Red Alert's direction. The mechs bowed their heads, looking appropriately embarrassed. "All three of you are dismissed, and please take Bluestreak with you. Poor thing looks like he needs help to his quarters." And by "help" Chromia meant physically picking the mech up and carrying his unconscious frame away.

"I'll take him," Inferno said quietly, crossing the room to gather the smaller bot. All four of them were away without further incident, leaving Jazz alone with the 2IC of the Femme Division. During his short residence in the care of the femmes, he had rarely ever chanced upon either Chromia or Elita One. He had never had the chance to exchange words with either of them. They were two individuals he was curious and wary of at the same time. He couldn't comprehend what Chromia, of all the femmes, would be doing in his company at this time of night. What purpose could she possibly have for seeking him out?

"So," Chromia suddenly intoned, coming around to Jazz's right side, her dusky blue armour taking on a silvery shade under the light filtering in through windows. She leaned against the crystalline pane, a little taller than Jazz though not as wide. There was an energon blade at her side, nothing more than a small dagger but still enough to pose as a threat. The femme made no move for her blade, instead focusing her gaze on the Neutral mech. "You've been coming here a lot."

"It has a nice view," Jazz replied neutrally, not bothering to cast his gaze to the side to acknowledge the femme. As always, he kept his visor down, its blank white expanse keeping Chromia at bay.

"You like to watch things, don't you?" Chromia said, turning her head a little to peer out the window into the surrounding landscape. Bots, buildings, high walls, and then ravaged battlefields for as far as the optic could see, all wrapped up in the veil of night. It was pretty, in a desolate kind of way. Familiar and haunting.

"There's not much else ta do around here," the saboteur replied, shrugging.

"Yeah, not much to do when you're just a... guest." The femme snorted lightly, as if laughing at the term. "Even less to do when you've already seen and done it all, right?"

She was obviously expecting an answer, so Jazz indulged her with a curt, "Right."

"I can relate," Chromia intoned, nodding to herself. "After so long, you get to a point when it feels like all time does it repeat itself. The older you get, the more time repeats over and over."

The corner of Jazz's mouthplates curved minutely, the gesture sharp and unkind. Chromia was one of the old ones, like him. Someone whose spark never faded no matter how many eons past. Both she and Ironhide were old. Older than Jazz, he'd wager, but probably not by much. But unlike Jazz, they tended to show their age a little more. Sometimes they advertised it as part of their fear campaign against the Decepticons. They were ancient and couldn't die; true immortals among immortals. By contrast, Jazz didn't like having others aware of how many lifetimes he'd lived. It took away from his mystery. He preferred to have one up on his opponents at all times.

"Ah see the Prime can't keep his mouthplates shut, can he?" the saboteur snorted, his mouthplates still curved in their bitter pose.

"Don't blame him- he can hardly keep something from Elita One."

"His sparkmate," Jazz growled, distaste colouring his tone. He never liked the idea of being bound to someone he could keep no secrets from. A spark forever bound to him, and he to that spark. The idea was absurd.

"Yes, his sparkmate and my friend. Elita One can hardly keep something from me- as a rule, I don't let her," Chromia replied, her diamond-sharp optics tracking Jazz's every movement. "I have to admit, it's quite the surprise. I never imagined you being so old. Although, now that I think about it, it makes sense."

"Ah hide mah age better than you do."

"Sure, I'll give you that." Chromia nodded, pensive over the matter. She continued to openly study Jazz, tracing his frame with unabashed appraisal. It occurred to the saboteur that the femme was much different from her mate. Their reputations painted them both as gun turrets with legs, short-tempered and trigger-happy. Now Jazz realized that Chromia was the more dangerous of the pair. She had the optics of a killer who thought her kills through. She could kill slowly if she wanted to. Her mind was probably as sharp as the energon blade she carried. Like Jazz, she was made all the more dangerous by all the eons she had lived.

Jazz finally turned to face his company fully, leaning his shoulder against the window in a mirror of Chromia's pose. "Is there a reason ya came here, or did ya just want ta reminisce about the good old orns?"

A ghost of a smirk crossed the femme's mouthplates. "Got curious, is all. It's not every orn I come across another old one. Figured since you were under my division's care and all, I might as well make good on having you pinned down to check you out."

Jazz bristled. "Ah'm not pinned down."

Chromia's optics glinted. "Oh really? Then why haven't you left yet? You're not the kind to stay in one place unless you're held there."

"Ah simply don't want ta leave yet," Jazz replied sharply.

"I wonder why?" murmured the femme, though by her tone, she already thought she knew the answer. That irked Jazz more than it should have. He flexed his hands, curling his clawed fingers into fists. Chromia's optics instantly fell to the movement, her own frame tensing in retaliation. Her hand flexed near her blade, prepared to stab him straight through to his spark if need be. When Jazz did not strike, she didn't relax. Neither relaxed. However, her gaze did return to his.

"What do ya want, femme?" the saboteur growled.

She canted her head, looking Jazz over. "Do you ever wonder why sparks like ours never fade?"

Fade. The term used to refer to what happens to sparks after they hit a certain age. Nigh-immortal beings simply ceased to be because the energy of their life forces dispersed, their sparks fading away. There was no reason for it, it simply happened. It was a part of life. A part of death.

"Ah never have ta wonder," Jazz replied. "Ah already know."

Chromia arched an optic ridge, silently enquiring for the saboteur to continue.

Jazz turned his gaze to the endless black sky again. He laid a hand against the cold crystal pane. "We don't fade because we still have reasons for living. It's as simple as that."

"I suppose it is that simple, for some." Chromia chuckled ruefully. "But what reasons do we have when we've already seen it all? You'd think we'd get bored and die like everyone else."

"Do Ah look like Ah have all the answers?" Jazz replied, his tone bordering on curt.

Laughter drifted from the dusky blue femme. "Answers, no. When I walked in here, it looked like you had a pit of a lot of questions, though."

"That's none of your business, femme."

"No, it's not," Chromia replied, clearly unconcerned with that little detail. Her gaze suddenly became more intense, far more intent on the subject of her appraisal. "I'm willing to wager that what's keeping you here on base is something similar to what's keeping you from fading."

"Again- none of your business."

Chromia ignored him. "You're a hedonist, always looking for something new, something interesting. You've been looking for something that's different from everything you've known. I think you found that here."

"So says you," Jazz replied tightly, the hand he laid against the window now curling into a fist.

"Yeah, says me. I've lived my own fair share of life, Jazz. I've seen enough things to know what I'm looking at."

"Then maybe ya should get your optics checked."

She rolled her optics. "Whatever, listen to me or don't, I don't care. I'm just going to call it exactly as I see it, and I see that you're not the same mech you were the orn you came here. You're capable of leaving any time you want, but you never do. You could massacre this base, but you never bother. You're even wearing a damn tracking collar that means absolute slag. Why?" She prodded him with a sharp finger, only to be smacked away.

"Don't touch meh."

Chromia smirked. "There's something here unlike anything you've ever experience before, and you can't get it anywhere else. That's why you stay."

Jazz growled, turning his faceplate away from the femme, despising her with every fibre of his being.

"I'm right, aren't I? Even if you don't want to admit it, I'm right," Chromia pressed. "I know the feeling. It's addictive. You can never get enough of it. You're willing to do stupid slag just for a taste of it. The more you have it, the more you want it."

"Ya don't know anything."

"I know enough."

Jazz turned back to the femme, his smirk now a scowl. "Why are ya really here, femme? Ah'm not interested in listenin' ta your philosophy. Say your piece an' leave meh alone."

"First of all, my philosophy in life happens to be shoot first, ask questions later. I was just giving you the benefit of my wisdom, which happens to be a little bit more comprehensive than yours." Her smirk grew wide as as Jazz absorbed the mild insult, darkening his mood. It was so obvious that he wanted to rip her head from her shoulders. It was so telling of how much he had changed as he continued to resist the urge. "I've already said my piece, whether or not you bothered to listen. You can take that stupid collar off now. I'm amazed that you've worn it for this long."

For a moment, Jazz hesitated, gauging the femme for any trickery. When he found none, he reached up and disengaged the locking mechanism, slipping the collar from his neck and crushing it between his hands. The scrap of metal was then tossed to a shadowed corner of the room.

"There, doesn't that feel better?"

"Much," Jazz snorted.

Chromia straightened to her full height, gazing down at Jazz with old optics like his own, but he couldn't help but feel that she truly knew something he didn't. He hated that feeling. He hated her a little more than he did before.

"I think I should tell you the real reason I came here," intoned the femme, inclining her head.

"Spit it out- Ah ain't got all night."

Another smirk curved Chromia's mouthplates. "You're no longer under my division's care. Prowl's returned from Polyhex; you're with him now."

What an odd word choice...

"Ah see."

Jazz lingered a moment more in Chromia's presence, sizing her up. A moment passed when he really could have dived for her throat and torn it out, but he never acted on it. In the end, he spun on his heel and retreated for the door. He didn't want to think of the reason he was going. He didn't want to think of who he was going to see. Least of all, he didn't want to think of what he saw swimming in the old femme's optics. He swept from the room silently, leaving a smirking Chromia with her too-knowing gaze in his wake.