Here's part two of that chapter that used to be one! 8D
And the reviewers have spoken! It seems that there is such love out there for Putter-Poof that a fanclub has been give birth. And we all have femme4jack to thank for taking the playful joke to the next level; she actually created a fanclub! See = putterpoof-fans . livejournal . com (minus the spaces). Putter-Poof has a real live virtual fanclub! Quick, everyone go check it out! 8D And if it actually turns out that there are people on LJ who want to discuss matters of WE, femme4jack said she could create a separate account for War Eternal lovers (or readers who are biting their nails and going crazy, because I get sick enjoyment out of torturing the fuck out of characters 8D ). I have no clue how to use LJ, but when I do, I'll probably end up chattering on there, and when I chatter, I tend to spit up spoilers and extras and backstories and...stuff. Anyone who has been in contact with me for an extended period of time through PMs or on DA knows I can't keep my mouth shut! XD So, um, quick everyone, to the Putter-Poof-mobile!
Anyways, I was so thrilled with the making of this fanclub that I totally double-timed finishing this chapter as a gigantic thanks to femme4jack for making my life so much better. This chapter is for you, my dear. ^_^
Also, to the reviewers of the last chapter, all of whom deserve hugs and unicorns, you have my deepest thanks for your love and amazingness. Thank you to KidaBridger, renegadewriter8, Raining Ink, SilverIcy, Vyxen Skye, Jessie07, infinitymirrors, Alangrieal, NightBlooming Orchid, quasarmom, abarai-san, evilbunny777, WhiteAster, DemonSurfer, Daklog73, CNightJoy, Darkeyes17, Jazz935, Fianna9, StarscreamII, Yuro-Faita911, luinrina, ChaosGarden, phoebe turner, Faecat, LogicIsTheUltimateWeapon, Wise Crack Idiots, Camfield, Bongo Lover, katiesparks, femme4jack, and RococoSpade! Hugs and unicorns for everyone! Yayyyyyyyyyyy.
Chapter 33
"Ha! Meh? Trouble? Never."
And for most of Jazz's orn, that was mostly true.
Sort of.
He didn't cause any of his usual sort of mischief, so that was practically no mischief at all. Not that his promise of 'no mischief' to Live-wire meant anything; it wasn't like his 'good behaviour' was for her. He didn't know the bot, wasn't sure if he liked the bot, and he sure as pit wasn't going to make promises to her, especially the sort he intended to keep. But, if by some strange quirk of the increasingly strange universe, Jazz's inactivity could be interpreted as a unconscious bid to not cause mischief, which it most certainly wasn't, but if you were going to interpret it that way, then it would certainly seem like he was keeping his promise.
Pure coincidence, really.
A convenient coincidence that Prowl probably would have enjoyed calculating the statistical probability of.
Of course, this was Jazz, and Jazz did not enjoy calculating statistics. Unless it was for cheating a gamble, in which case he was happy to calculate the statistics of him winning. But in this specific case, he enjoyed other things, usually mischief. The kind of mischief that he wasn't doing at the moment. And what possible, proper explanation might there be for this lack of usual mischief that was failing to meet his chaos quota for the orn? Perhaps... perhaps it was merely because he was tired and on a mission and simply did not feel like causing his special brand of trouble.
He told himself it was because he wasn't home-
Whoa. Wait.
Home-?
When the pit did he start thinking of Iacon as home-?
Jazz stopped in the middle of the hall so suddenly that he caused the bots behind him to nearly run into him. Thankfully, they had fast enough reflexes to veer to the side. They complained right up until they saw the white visor. News had travelled like lightning about the bots who had just arrived; an Autobot commander and Jazz. Neutral Jazz who would be recognizable by the white visor... and would possible be the last thing anyone ever saw before he killed them dead. Complaints stopped damn fast after they saw the white visor.
"Home," he said, as if to test the weight and breadth and depth of the word. Test how real it felt; what it sounded like in his audios. He rolled it over his mouthplates and tasted its unique flavour. Home was once a bitter word for him; a word that existed in language only, because the physical world held no equivalent for him. Now the word 'home' fell from his mouthplates and... he wasn't about to say something stupid like 'it tasted sweet' because that would probably make him purge, but it certainly wasn't as bitter as he remembered.
Because... because... Aw, damn it, when did he get a home? Homes tied bots down. Homes made bots weak. Homes can be used against bots. A home was where bots gave a damn about each other. Homes... were the places that bots returned to at the end of the orn.
Jazz already knew, and had known for some time (though he was incredibly reluctant to admit it), that he would return to Iacon.
At the end of every mission he completed as a favour for Special Ops, he came back instead of running off. He stayed for orns at a time without chains or cages or force fields to hold him. When he was first going to leave for Shockwave, before Prowl had weaselled his way onto the mission, Jazz had realized he would return to Iacon after the mission. There was no place else he could think of going. One might argue that it was purely because Iacon had Prowl, and Jazz was still rather fixated on having his fun with Prowl, but now that the tactician was with him, there was no reason to go back to Iacon... and yet he still intended to go back. If he survived a second meeting with Shockwave, that is.
Iacon was his home in ways that Kaon and Tyger Pax never had.
"Aw, damn," Jazz sighed. He really didn't need that kind of baggage.
He scrubbed a hand over his faceplate, as if trying to slough off the thought process. He decided that this was not the time to think about things like that. He couldn't afford such distractions. He'd let the thought get lost inside his head for the time being, and when there came a moment when he could give it his full brooding condemnation, he would summon the thought back and curse it thoroughly.
For the time being, Jazz would simply say that because he wasn't 'home', because he didn't have the usual sort of bots he took the most joy in bothering, there simply wasn't enough incentive for him to get into his usual sort of mischief. And no, he certainly was not making excuses for himself. Excuses were for lesser bots. It was pure fact that he had no incentive; without Ratchet to rage, Ironhide to bellow, or Mirage to coldly seethe in his personal pit of glitchy half-bitteriness... the incentive for Jazz to cause trouble just wasn't there. Which, in a sense, was lucky for the bots of Tyger Pax. No Autobots spontaneously found their schedules rearranged. No one suddenly discovered their valuables missing. Recharging bots were left in peace, rather than to be startled awake with the terrifying realization that someone was standing at the end of their berths.
The only trouble Jazz caused was the inadvertent kind. The kind that clogged up halls and encouraged nervous shoving while curious bots craned to get a good look at the terrifying ex-Decepticon they now had in their midst. As if he were some kind of freakish sideshow to be ogled, not a truly dangerous threat who could easily erase their existences from the surface of the planet. Fearlessness similar to that of Live-wire and Granite, though far more irritating on a level that Jazz did not even think it possible for Cybertronians, as a species, could sink to.
It wasn't likely that the bots of Tyger Pax had any better visual recognition skills than anyone else, but they could damn well spot the one bot who didn't have blue optics. The one that didn't have an active Autobot signature modulator. The silver mech who was wandering around without any distinct purpose. The bot that didn't belong. Jazz was singled out in a way that had never bothered him in Iacon. It was a distinct awareness that he was not like the bots around him. He was better than all of them, sure, but even in Iacon he had had more than just Prowl to associate with. The twins were like him. Firestar was almost tolerable... if she kept her mouthplates shut. Jazz was even starting to appreciate Ratchet in a mutual, wholly disturbing, sort of way.
Here, there was nothing.
He was as alone in Tyger Pax now as he had always been in the past. None of the Autobots were apparently brave enough to approach him. That suited Jazz fine. He didn't feel like holding a meaningful, or even a meaningless, conversation with anyone. What did happen to bother Jazz even more then their relentless staring was the fact that when they decided to talk about him, they didn't lower their voices.
Now, after touring his way through the base and finally getting fed up with the staring, Jazz hoped to take refuge at a solitary bench in a small open courtyard. The acoustics of the place made it unnaturally quiet; probably a courtyard meant for Autobots to escape into for a bit of respite. The mists had yet to burn off outside, so it was a grey mid-morning with a cold dampness in the air. Maybe the weather was off-putting enough to discourage bots from following him around? Unfortunately, where Jazz went, his so-called oglers followed. Bots who did not seemed to have any other purpose in the world today other than to shuffle around the halls, watching every move Jazz made with wide optics, even as he retreated to the half-concealed bench behind the solid column of an archway. The bravest bots actually came into the courtyard with the saboteur, though they remained at a designated distance. They turned to each other and chattered excitedly.
Jazz found himself becoming increasingly short of patience. Not just the regular kind of short of patience either, but the special kind where he could actually feel his hard earned sanity starting to slip into the void and all the pleasant thoughts he used to think, like How Many Bots Can I Kill Before Anyone Notices...? started to come back. He narrowed his gaze on each offending Autobot and quickly decided the best way to dispatch each one quickly, efficiently, and, of course, with the greatest amount of spark-searing pain. Since none of them seemed overly intelligent, nor appeared to have any significant purpose to their lives other than to be the current targets of Jazz's wrath, he would probably be doing someone a favour by culling a few. As if the universe agreed with him, there was a lovely storage room in the next hall where he could hide the corpses.
"Excuse me," said someone from the back of the crowd, sounding curiously bewildered to find a crowd gathered in the middle of nowhere. "Um, excuse me? Coming through-."
"Hey!"
"Sorry, I didn't see you there." A mech shuffled his way to the front of the crowd, his gaze focused on the ground in case any other microbots decided to get in the way of his feet. When he finally managed to squeeze his way out into the open, he stumbled a step, looked around the courtyard, and then spotted Jazz half-concealed behind the pillar. He cast his optics around again to see if anyone else was lurking, but aside from the random gathering of off-duty bots, he saw no one. Jazz was not looking in the direction of the new bot, but he felt the approach.
"Is something going on out here?" asked the newcomer.
Jazz still did not look over at him. "Not as far as Ah know," he replied flatly.
"Oh, well that's strange," said the bot. "Did you know there was a crowd over there?"
"Couldn't miss it."
"They seem really interested in something."
"Ah bet they are, the little fraggers," Jazz growled.
"What was that?"
"Nothing."
"Hmmm." There was a bit of shuffling as someone shifted their weight. "Do you mind if I sit with you? I know there are other benches, but the crowd is freaking me out. If I sit alone, they might think they can sit with me."
"Go ahead, sit down," Jazz chuckled, a little darkly but nonetheless with an edge of humour. The bot had no clue who he was talking to, which was a pleasant change from the morning he had been having. Sometimes a little anonymity went a long way.
"Thanks." With a grateful sigh, the bot sat down. "Things like this just remind me of why I prefer working alone. Primus bless the orn I got into Intelligence & Espionage. I'd much rather be out there than in here. It seems seems like when a bunch of bots gather in one place, the intelligence of the whole lot starts going down."
"Ah've noticed that too." Jazz shifted in his seat, not comfortable with keeping his back to the newcomer. He turned enough to keep the Autobot in his periphery, while keeping the crowd in his sights. He deemed the crowd the greater threat. Not because there were more of them, because Jazz was quite confident he could kill them all before they could even assemble properly to defend themselves, but because that uneasy feeling of his was starting to return. The off-and-on feeling of being watched in a manner that was not dissimilar to being hunted.
His company leaned in. "Hey, maybe you might be able to tell me something... Have you heard anything about Jazz being here?"
"Huh?" Jazz said, his current train of thought interrupted, which was a shame- he'd been debating whether or not murdering his company would be enough to drive his so-called hunter out of hiding to face him head-on.
The other bot took Jazz's exhalation as minor ignorance. "You know, that bot who defected from the Decepticons over a vorn ago? He works in Iacon now with their Head Tactical Adviser, what's-he-called?"
"Prowl?"
"Yeah, that's the one. I just got in a joor ago and that's what I've been hearing, that Jazz and Prowl are here. Wild, huh?"
Jazz smirked. "Yeah, wild."
"I wouldn't have believed it myself it if I didn't hear it from the Master Spy here during my debriefing." He cleared his vents nervously. "Maybe it's just me, but I don't think they should be letting someone like that lose on base. Jazz, I mean. It's dangerous, don't you think?"
"Oh?"
"Well, yeah, I mean...There are dangerous bots here who hold some pretty deep grudges. I don't imagine that any of them would take kindly to an ex-Decepticon roaming around, especially someone like Jazz. If half the things they say about him are true, then there are bots here who are probably looking for revenge." He sighed. "I've read the reports and it's damn obvious that Jazz has been helping us. He's done some horrible things, but so have all of us by now. I say that if he's trying to be Neutral and trying to help us, then maybe we should try trusting him as well. At the very least, assign him protection while he's here."
Jazz nearly laughed. "Ah think someone like Jazz can take care of himself."
There came a humoured snort. "Yeah? What makes you say that?"
The saboteur turned to fully face his company, revealing the white visor that marked him as one of the very few Neutrals on base. One of the few Neutrals who happened to be infamously known as Jazz.
The Autobot's optics widened considerably when it finally clicked who he was talking to. "Oh," he said. "Oh..."
"Yeah," replied Jazz, now grinning. Funny how all those previous thoughts of a pleasant mid-orn massacre were suddenly gone in the face of this one bot's shock. Much to his surprise, his company did not remain shocked for long. There was a slow blink, another, he shifted backwards, and then he laughed...albeit a bit nervously.
"You, um, could have told me who you were before I made a fool of myself," said the bot, rubbing the back of his neck in a distinctly sheepish manner. Now that Jazz was facing him properly, he saw that the bot was typical for a mech frame made for spying, with a sleek shape that exempted most decorative features. The contours hinted that his alt mode was an impressive one, made for hard, fast driving. It was hard to tell what his true paint colour was seeing as he was currently covered in a non-reflective brown grease paint which would have helped him blend in out in the wildlands wherever he had been sent to gather information.
"Where would be the fun in that?" Jazz wondered lightly. He found himself offering his hand. If you asked him why he was offering his hand, he wouldn't have been able to tell you. "Jazz."
The other bot laughed again. "I know that now." He touched his hand to Jazz's briefly. "I'm Punch."
"Alright, Punch," Jazz chuckled. "Just ta let ya know, Ah don't need no security detail tailing meh," he said. "Ah may not be Decepticon no more, but that sure as pit don't mean Ah've lost mah skills."
"I guess not," replied Punch, easily and agreeably. He was not about to object to anything now that he knew who the silver bot actually was. He inclined his head to the crowd. "At least I know why there's random crowd over there, huh?"
"Yep."
Punch, who was relatively good at his function as a spy, detected the slight lace of irritation in the saboteur's tone. "You know, if you don't like them staring at you, you can always give them the slip. Switch your optics blue and turn on an Autobot signal modulator and you'd blend right in."
Jazz inclined his head as if considering the option, and then said, "No."
"No?" Punch pursed his mouthplates, unable to fathom why not. He didn't bother to press the matter, given that he was not prone to purposeful stupidity; he knew very well that outright irritating someone like Jazz was incredibly stupid.
Jazz shifted in his seat. He didn't need to give an explanation to a virtual stranger, of all things, but he said, "It's the principle of it."
"Ah," said Punch, pretending to understand. Or maybe he did understand. Barring his fantastic initial ignorance while first meeting Jazz, he seemed like a clever bot. "Principles are good," he said. "You know a bot's good when he sticks to the right set of principles. You're not Autobot, so why should you be forced to pretend you're one?" He smiled. "I completely respect that."
Jazz suddenly recalled a moment which seemed like forever ago, in which he had been demanding respect of the Autobots, and Prowl had admitted to always respecting him. And now it seemed he had the respect of one more.
Punch revved quietly, this time not able to interpret the look Jazz was giving him.
"Ah think Ah'm gonna go," said Jazz, rising from his seat. "It was... nice talking ta ya."
"Same here." Punch replied, hopping to his feet. "How about I walk you out? Not that you need me to walk you out, but I- uh, have to go to the wash racks anyways." He gestured needlessly to his grease paint.
"Sure." Jazz turned directly toward the crowd instead of heading for one of the alternate exits. He was not in the habit of retreating from anyone, not even the dumbstruck crowd and the possible threat of a stalker lurking within it. Punch followed at a pace behind. At their approach, the chattering of the crowd became even more pronounced, even as they jostled to get out of the way.
"Here he come! Here he comes!"
"Oh my Primus, get out of the way!"
"Damn, he's gorgeous."
"How come all the gorgeous ones are psycho?"
Punch quietly and discreetly cleared his vents, though it suspiciously sounded like laughter. Jazz revved, but it did not sound like laughter. It sounded like the warning growl of a beast before it went berserk and slaughtered everyone in the vicinity. One poor bot who had the misfortune of catching Jazz's searing glare was quickly reduced to a pile of shaking bolts. Had he kept Jazz's glare any longer, he might have been reduced to ashes.
After that, the way cleared much more quickly.
"I heard he sold his spark to Unicron," someone murmured furtively while shooing several bots out of the way.
"There's no such thing as Unicron!"
Someone laughed. "He doesn't look so dangerous-ACK!"
A flash of silver streaked in front of the speaker's optics. A shallow slash appeared across his faceplate. A dagger that had just flown past his faceplate embedded itself deeply in the wall next to his head. There was a few astroseconds as bots realized what had just happened. Soon after, there was a mad dash for everyone to get the pit out of the way. Quite frankly, no one wanted to get a dagger to the faceplate. The one who the dagger had been meant for failed to move, currently in shock with his legs frozen in place. Jazz approached at a smooth gait, clearly not troubled by the mass panic he had just inspired.
"Excuse meh, mah hand slipped," he said, patting the bot's cheek over the new slash dissecting it. "Ya might want ta get that checked out." He then tugged his dagger from the wall and walked away without looking back.
"That," Punch said as they reentered the building, "was terrifying."
"Thank you," Jazz replied as if he had just received a grand compliment. He turned to go his own way, intent on leaving Punch behind, but the Autobot seemed to have other plans. Before Jazz was out of reach, he touched the saboteur's wrist to gain his attention. The silver mech paused, turning to regard his company.
Punch quickly drew his hands to his sides. "Look, um, I'm not saying this to be ominous or anything, but be careful, okay? A stunt like that may have just created more enemies for you than friends."
"Ah have a nasty habit of doing that," Jazz replied. He knew exactly what he had been doing when he let that dagger fly. He felt the optics of an unseen hunter on him. Inciting a little more rage by one needless attack was one way to draw the bot out into the open. Too bad it didn't work. Yet.
Punch pursed his mouthplates, but knew he had nothing more to say. He tilted Jazz something like a half-smile that was a little shaky around the edges, and then he left.
Jazz sighed, casting his gaze around the windowed corridor that was now conspicuously empty. His target was obviously not going to lurk around in the open. He would have to bide his time before he let the hunter become the hunted. Even if he had given a meaningless promise to Live-wire for no mischief, he reminded himself that he had specified no planned mischief. The spontaneous kind was still an option. So he decided that as soon as the opportunity arose, he was going to have to spontaneously kill someone.
He was looking forward to it.
Having toured the base all morning and no longer having anything interesting to distract himself with until evening fell, he sighed and returned to the barracks to wait until the hunt began. He did not go to his own room; he went to the room across from his. Prowl was exactly where Jazz expected him to be. He sat on the floor in the center of his room, legs crossed and optics closed. Jazz hauled himself up on the berth and stretched out comfortably. He assumed that he was invited in because the tactician did not tell him to get the frag out.
After a silent moment, Prowl peered over his shoulder. "You haven't been gone long," he observed.
"Bored," shrugged Jazz.
"Would you like to meditate with me?"
"Ah think Ah'll recharge. Wake meh when it's evening."
"Alright."
Prowl did not bother to question why Jazz was opting to recharge somewhere other than his own assigned room. It had been nearly over a fortnight since they had left Iacon, and they were now so accustomed to the routine of recharging in each other's company that it seemed perfectly reasonable that Jazz would rather recharge in Prowl's presence than do so alone. It offered more protection than what a single locked door could. So Jazz crossed his arms behind his head and settled in for a comfortable nap. Within moments, he was cycling air through his vents peacefully.
Prowl returned to meditating for the rest of the afternoon. Mindful of his resting company, he tested his emotional capacities with mild memories only, and kept his vocal processor shut off so as not to voice any discomfort. At one point, approximately two joors after Jazz had fallen into a light doze, Prowl's internal struggle faltered. The memory was of watching a victim of a driving accident die; acid rain had slicked the roads that orn and one driver had lost control, veering off a suspended highway and plummeting too far down for anyone to live long after impact. Prowl had arrived on scene in time to watch life fade from the bot's optics. He had witnessed the accident early in his bid to learn emotions, and it had struck him how senseless such a death was. A waste of a perfectly good spark for nothing.
In the present, as he dealt with the lingering guilt and remorse for that one bot, Jazz suddenly half-roused himself from recharge. He rolled over, first accidentally slapping Prowl in the side of the head, and then laying his hand to the top of Prowl's cranial crests. A gentle magnetic pulse activated. Several moments later, Jazz's hand remained on top of Prowl's head, and the tactician realized that his partner had fallen back into recharge. Prowl, now soothed, did not see the point in moving, so he spent the rest of the afternoon with Jazz's hand on his head like a very odd hat.
In the mid-afternoon, there came a knock at the door, which ushered in Tyger Pax's Head Tactical Adviser. Chester was a minibot of colony design, mostly green with tartan accents on his long audio crests, forearms, and shins. Prowl invited the commander in, though Chester stopped when he saw that Prowl had company... and where that company's hand was currently resting.
"Am I interrupting something?" wondered the Paxian commander, slightly perplexed to see Prowl on the floor with Jazz's claws atop his head.
"Not at all," Prowl assured. "I am meditating. He is recharging."
"I can see that," Chester observed with slight bemusement.
Prowl sat straight, managing not to dislodge Jazz's hand. "Is there anything I can help you with?"
"Just taking a moment to see how you were settling in," said Chester.
"Adequately," replied Prowl.
Chester nodded, having assumed as much. "You are aware that Jazz spent the morning terrorizing the Autobots here, yes? Not that I pay much attention to rumours, but word is he attacked someone with a dagger."
Unsurprised, Prowl inclined his head. "That does sound like something he would do."
"Quite."
"May I posit that he was most likely provoked? Jazz has been on edge since we arrived, and I cannot imagine the Autobots here taking lightly to his presence." He paused, aware that it sounded like he was making excuses for his partner's obvious violence streak. Quickly, he said, "Not that I approve of such behaviours, you understand. It is simply that I have become accustomed to them-."
"I imagine you would have to be," Chester said with an air that clearly indicated he was relieved not to have been given the burden Prowl had. Things were much simpler when you didn't have a psychopath running around.
"Are you here to reprimand him?" Prowl asked cautiously.
The commander laced his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. "Under normal circumstances, it would fall to me to enforce the rules and reprimand those who do not obey them... however, all I have heard thus far is rumours. No one has directly come forward to report an assault, and as it stands, I would prefer that consulting Grimm to see if anyone has come in for medical treatment remain as a last option." Chester arched his optics ridges. "I cannot reprimand someone on the grounds of rumour alone, so it would seem your partner there is as free as the sky."
"So it would seem," Prowl replied evenly.
"As a matter of course, I would suggest you mention to him that keeping the peace around here is my top priority and I would hate to lock him in the brig, which would inevitably delay your mission."
Prowl inclined his head, though he did not voice his thoughts on the matter. Having Jazz locked in the brig would delay nothing; the saboteur would simply unlock himself and walk out the moment it became convenient for him.
"Tell him when he comes online, will you?" Chester said with a wry shake of his head. "He looks rather peaceful at the moment."
"I will do that, though I think I should point out that appearances can be deceiving," Prowl said with a nearly invisible half-smile curving his mouthplates. "He looks peaceful, but he is rather dangerous regardless the state he is in." This statement was marred by the fact that he said it with someone's hand still laying on his head.
Chester nodded mildly. He had known Prowl for as long as Prowl had been the Iacon Tactial Adviser, and for that time he had never known the mech to ever smile, and it was generally a cold orn in the pit before Prowl freely complimented someone without it being a roundabout statement through facts.
"Interesting," said the commander.
Prowl blinked. He did not think he had said anything 'interesting'.
Chester smiled, because he now saw what Rook had been describing earlier in the orn. Prowl was not the same mech they had been coordinating with for these past few vorns. His changed qualities did not come out so acutely during conference calls, but to meet with him physically underscored the fact that he was... different.
Jazz, for that matter, was not the bot they were expecting at all.
"If that is all?" Prowl pressed, clearly at a loss to understand Chester's staring.
"Yes, that's all. If you'll excuse me?" The minibot backed his way out the door and was gone.
Prowl stared at the closed door for a few brief moments. "What a strange bot," he said with a shrug.
As evening settled, the tactician roused Jazz as promised. The saboteur snapped online, looking perplexed to find where his hand had ended up. Prowl tried to offer an explanation, but the truth sounded just as bizarre as fiction, so he mumbled something else. When asked why Prowl had not simply removed Jazz's hand after he had been assaulted, Prowl failed to find any logical explanation. For the convenience of them both, they decided to file the incident under 'curious happenings to be commonly dismissed' and tried to pretend it did not happen.
"Ya gonna come with meh ta get some energon?" Jazz asked as he popped to his feet.
"I'm fine," said Prowl. "I want to stay here and continue with my work. I'll get some energon later."
"How about Ah get some for ya? Ah'll bring it back after Ah get some things done," Jazz offered, shuffling around Prowl on his way to the door.
"That would be nice," Prowl said with a smile. "Before you go, Chester stopped by earlier-."
"The Adviser here?"
"Yes, him. He mentioned an assault that took place in the morning."
Jazz leaned against the doorway pondering for a moment. "Oh, that," he finally said with a dismissive air. "That wasn't an assault. Ah tickled the bot. If Ah assaulted him, he'd be dead."
Prowl sighed, rubbing the bridge between his optics. "If that's the case, please don't tickle anyone else tonight."
A smirk appeared. "Why? Ya jealous?"
"Not nearly as much as you'd want me to be," Prowl replied with a roll of his optics. "I get tickled by you often enough back in Iacon."
Jazz snorted. "Well, good thing Ah don't have no plans for tickles or giggles tonight. You'll just have to live without."
"How will I ever survive?" Prowl drawled dryly. "Go already before you get caught in the evening rush. Remember that I like my energon-."
"Plain, room-temperature, medium-grade," Jazz rhymed off with ease. "You're getting one with filter cleaner in it 'cause the stuff we've been drinking lately is gumming up our filters. Ah can hear ya gurgling at night."
"Fine, with filter cleaner if they have it, but not too basic. My tanks aren't configured to handle high pH."
"Consider it done." With a wink, the silver mech eagerly swung into the hall. He banked left, cutting through the mild shift-change crowd. Most bots jostled out of his way, looks of terror rushing across their faceplates. Jazz could hear them muttering. He heard mentions of his earlier escapade in the courtyard. It was rather satisfying to know that a such a simple intimidation technique could inspire such feared respect. Too bad something like that wouldn't happen in Iacon. If Jazz started throwing daggers around there, the only thing that would happen is Ratchet might throw a tantrum back at him, but only if Jazz managed to do some real damage. Bots were just too damned used to him back h-
Ho-
Hooooooooo-
Home.
There, he said the H-word.
Deciding that he would collect the energon first before he invested himself in the hunt, Jazz made his way toward the energon distribution room he had passed during his early tour of the base. It was a moderately sized room with no windows but clever lighting which gave the impression of outdoor light. There was a collection of tables scattered around, though not nearly enough to accommodate everyone who came in for refuelling. One wall was lined with dispensers. He noted that Live-wire was in line; she spotted him and quickly waved him over. No one said anything about him cutting in line.
"Fancy meeting you here, dearspark," said Live-wire as she threaded her arm through his and patted him kindly as if they were close friends. "How have you been enjoying Tyger Pax?"
"Been recharging for most of it," Jazz replied mildly.
"That's not what I heard," Live-wire laughed. "Something about you scaring the slag out of some bots...?"
Jazz cleared his vents, and he could not help but notice how sheepish the noise sounded. "Alright, there was that."
They shuffled forward as the bot at the head of the line got his energon and walked away.
"Cheeky thing," teased the femme. "I think there are more than a few Autobots around here who need a little scaring from time to time. You're a good bot for the job."
Jazz nodded silently.
Live-wire leaned against his side. "You'll be happy to hear that I'm finished checking your ship, restocked and everything."
"Any trouble?"
"None at all," she replied cheerfully. "Some wear and tear in the usual ways, but nothing that couldn't be patched up."
"And the noises?"
The femme paused, pursing her mouthplates. "Now, that's the thing, isn't it? My drones and I checked the ship over from engine to aft and we didn't find anything. It seems I-COM 7 just wants to make noises." She patted Jazz on the forearm. "I wouldn't worry about it, dearspark. I've been an engineer long enough to know that some machines just have personalities of their own. If you find that the noise is compromising the nature of its missions, have your engineers in Iacon decommission the ship."
"Ah'll consider it," Jazz replied lowly. He did not think Putter-Poof would appreciate being decommissioned.
They shuffled forward again, and this time they were at the head of the line. Out of habit, Jazz automatically stepped forward to take his share of energon, but just as quickly he stepped aside to let Live-wire have her turn first. She patted him on the arm again as if he was just some bashful little youngling. Once her cube was filled, Jazz took out two of his own from subspace and filled them both. One for himself, which was saturated with arsenic, hot as it would pour without igniting, and towing the line between regular energon and high-grade. Prowl's was plain, room-temperature, medium-grade with a dash of filter cleaner so he would stop gurgling at night.
"Thirsty tonight?" Live-wire asked with an arched optic ridge.
"Not all for meh," Jazz explained, sealing the cubes and slipping them away into subspace for safe keeping. "One's for Prowl. Ah said Ah'd get him some."
"You and Prowl must be very close as partners, yes?" Live-wire said lightly. They shuffled away from the front of the line so the next bot could get their energon. The dispensation room was crowded with bot who were getting off their shift or just about to go on, all of the jostling for space. Jazz cut himself an easy path, seeing as very few bots wanted to come in contact with him. Live-wire cheerfully moved behind him, content to have someone to clear the way for her.
"We work well together," Jazz replied over his shoulder, and he surprised himself with the honesty of the statement. He and Prowl worked surprisingly well together; Jazz worked better with Prowl than he had ever worked with anyone in his life, which was a bit of a stupid statement, considering that he had never worked with anyone all his life.
There came a quiet tinkle-bell laugh, Live-wire's optics glittering as she regarded the silver minibot. "So, if I were to invite you back to my room to get to know you better...?"
"Ah have things ta do tonight," Jazz replied a little too quickly.
"I see," said the femme, quickly coming to her own conclusion of the matter. She did not look disappointed to be turned down; indeed, she knew of Jazz's less-than-reputable tendencies and she was not of the mind to put herself in danger like that. She had just been curious to see what would happen if she invited him. Now she had an answer.
Jazz found himself frowning. "It's not what ya think."
"No?"
"No." They found a spot by the far wall which offered enough space for them to stand comfortably together. Jazz met the bright gaze of the femme; she was as tall as he was, though far more slender in build. He opened his mouth to give her a better explanation, and then realized two things; one, his actual plans for tonight consisted of hunting down whoever was watching him, and he had every intention of killing his stalker, and two, he didn't owe Live-wire any explanation at all. She could damn well think what she wanted; after this mission, it wasn't likely Jazz would ever see her again.
With those two reasons now solidified in his mind, Jazz ended up staring at the femme until she shivered and looked away. Inexplicably, he felt bad when she ducked her head
"Prowl an' Ah are just partners," Jazz murmured. That explanation he didn't owe Live-wire was coming out anyways, at least partially. "We wouldn't be good together otherwise. He's got his issues and Ah've got mine."
To this, Live-wire peered up with a kind expression. "I'm no expert in your situation," she said, and now her voice was cautious but still laced with lingering friendliness. "I don't know what the two of you have been through or what you've done, but..." She took his hand and once again patted it very gently. "I get the feeling that it's because of the issues you two have that you work so well together."
Jazz stared at her, then stared down at the two small hands that held one of his. He looked back up at her, and she quirked a smile.
"Maybe I'm wrong," she said with a shrug. "But I really hope I'm right. Goodnight, dearspark." She let go of his hand and merged with the crowd, letting herself get jostled around until she disappeared completely into the rush-hour madness.
Jazz watched the femme go for longer than he knew he should have. When he looked away, he found himself looking down again at the hand she had patted. He could not decide if he was disturbed that someone kept treating him with such easy familiarity, or if he was disturbed that he was getting used to being treated as such. As he usually did when he found his thoughts clouded by something he could not control, Jazz tossed it away to brood over later.
He left the dispensation room and took a sharp turn down the hall to return to the barracks and deliver Prowl's energon. Turning the corner into the barracks, he discovered the hall empty. Bots were now active on their evening shift or else choosing to spend their evening doing something else other than skulk in their quarters. What was of particular interest was that the hall was not as quiet as it should have been. Jazz heard scuffling from behind the walls, grunting, and a loud bang as a heavy body hit the floor. One might assume it was the sounds of some very ardent lovers, but Jazz knew better. He also recognized the voice of one of the bots grunting.
"Damn it, Prowl!" he snarled, feet pounding down the hall. The door hissed open before he even made it to his destination; a frame flew out, hitting the opposite wall and slumping to the floor. The bot was not Prowl, but looked as if he had been thoroughly thrashed.
"Prowl!" Jazz called, skidding into the doorway of the room.
"How nice... of you- to join me-!" Prowl grunted, currently defending himself against two more attackers, a titanic Decepticon and an Autobot minibot of roughly Jazz's height and mass. There was a third figure in the room lurking on the sidelines, waiting for Jazz to show up. The moment Jazz stuck his head in, the third bot attacked.
"Watch out!" Prowl bellowed.
Jazz jerked back as he sensed movement from his periphery. He raised his arms in defence, managing to block the lightning strike to his head. Another strike came, and then another, each as fast as the first. The sound of metal against metal rang down the hall. Jazz stumbled backwards, trying to get out into the open where he could launch a counterattack. Prowl's room was too small and too crowded at the moment.
"Thought ya was never gonna show up," said his opponent as he continued his assault. There was a distinct twang to his voice- not familiar, but annoying enough that Jazz wanted to punch him in the mouthplates for it.
"It's called being fashionably late," Jazz grunted.
"Ah call it your funeral." Another series of pounding strikes landed. The Decepticon's arms were clearly augmented for this kind of attack; prolonged lightning-fast strikes with enough force behind them to crack armour. Jazz felt the metal of his arms beginning to buckle inward.
Tired of being on the defensive, the saboteur jumped backwards so that the next strike meant for him did not land where it was supposed to. With too much momentum behind the attack, the other bot overbalanced. Jazz rushed him in that moment, immediately grabbing the wrist of the arm that was still extended. He twisted it around until he heard a satisfying snap, and then the furious howl of the bot who just realized his wrist had been broken.
"Awww, did Ah do that?" Jazz asked cheerfully. He twisted the arm back until the elbow snapped just like the wrist. There came an even louder bellow the second time. "Yep, Ah guess Ah did."
"You fragger!" spat the Decepticon, swinging around with his free arm to land a hard punch. Jazz's olfactory sensor went skewed, the metal stretching and crunching. In return, he slashed his opponent across the faceplate with his claws, catching one optic and tearing it out. He laughed when he realized the prize he had caught, dancing away and swinging it around by the trailing wire.
The expression on the Decepticon's faceplate was a mix of horror and rage. Energon oozed out in a thick river.
"Oops," said Jazz, grinning.
"Don't think Ah can't kill you with one optic."
They rushed each other.
The Decepticon's arms were not the only thing augmented for speed; he ran like a blur, catching Jazz off-guard. The saboteur suddenly found himself caught in an uppercut, a right hook, and then a powerful kick in the side that sent him flying into the wall. The Decepticon wasted no time, jumping on him and proceeding to beat the slag out of Jazz. Jazz raised his arms again to defend his head, but at the last moment he shoved his hands into his attacker's faceplate and released an EM pulse powerful enough to repulse the bot.
Jazz bucked the bot up, and then shoved him aside. They rolled, and then it was Jazz's turn to start beating the slag out of the Decepticon.
"Who sent you!" Jazz snarled, landing a heavy jab to the Decepticon's blind side. All he got was a gob of energon spat at him as an answer. Jazz backhanded him violently. "Don't think Ah won't kill ya."
"Ah ain't afraid ta die," said the Decepticon. He moved too fast for Jazz to counter; one dagger-like strike landed in the center of Jazz's chest, denting the armour inward. The shock of the impact was enough to allow the Decepticon to roll away, springing into a crouch. "Ya don't think Ah wasn't specially chosen ta take ya out? You're a thorn in Megatron's side and it's time ta pluck ya out."
"Oh wow, Ah can't believe how not scared Ah am," Jazz sneered.
"If ya were smart, ya would be," the Decepticon leered. "Ya got no one coming ta your rescue. Rampage will finish your little Auto-buddy off in there and then he'll be out here ta help meh take ya apart. Not that Ah need help."
Jazz laughed cruelly. "Really? 'Cause it kinda looks like ya do."
"Ya ain't lookin' close enough." Something unfolded from his back, curling up over his shoulders. Jazz got the impression of a long, arching tail of some sort that rose over the bot's back. It's end narrowed into a long, serrated tip that shone a dirty blue from dried energon under the hall lights. "They don't call meh Quickstrike fer nothing."
"Damn," Jazz cursed, dodging to the side as that tail aimed for his spark.
"Jazz!" Prowl cried out, able to see what was happening but unable to do anything about it. He ducked away from the fist that was meant for his faceplate, only to have the fist of the second bot land directly on his audio crest. A scream of feedback rang inside his head. He felt sparks ignite inside the damaged structure, burning; a stream of black smoke funnelled out.
Rampage loomed over Prowl's form, reaching out to grasp the tactician by the top of his head and ram his faceplate into the wall.
"Worry about yourself," said the hulking Decepticon. "Jazz will be dead soon anyways."
"Don't count on it," Prowl spat, even as the room spun from cranial damage.
Jazz's voice rose from the hall- "You did not just scratch mah paint-!"
Prowl found himself smirking, despite the fact that he was having his faceplate smashed.
There came a sudden scream. A terrible, high-pitched scream that nearly drown out the screeching noise of someone having a limb ripped from their frame. A brutal amputation where all the neural wires were left on to feel every moment it. Squirming wires and all sorts of twitching internals torn out. Sliced through. Diced up. Agony like acid.
This was followed by the sound of Jazz laughing while he beat Quickstrike with his own severed tail until the mech stopped moving.
The Autobot traitor that lurked next to Rampage paused at the sounds of the beating in the hall.
"Boss?" he intoned, looking worriedly in Rampage's direction.
"Never mind him. He knew what he was getting into when he decided to take on Jazz," Rampage rumbled, proceeding to pick Prowl up by the neck and swing him bodily into the wall until the tactician's insides were rattling and the wall itself started to cave in.
"Prowl!" Jazz yelled, rushing into the room. He brought the Autobot down first. There was barely a pause in action as he punched the bot in the back of the head and shoved him to the side before he was on Rampage's back. The air was suddenly charged with the strength of the magnetic pulse Jazz used at the base of the Decepticon's neck. A violent spasm followed, throwing Prowl to the floor. Rampage followed suit an astrosecond later, crumpling into a thoroughly unconscious heap of scrap metal.
Jazz was at Prowl's side in moments, gathering the tactician up and dragging him to safety.
"Friends of yours, I presume?" Prowl coughed, leaning heavily against Jazz's side.
"Ain't got no friends besides you," Jazz replied roughly. One arm was wrapped tightly around Prowl's frame while his free hand grasped the tactician beneath the chin and was turning his faceplate from side to side to inspect the damages. It wasn't as bad as it could have been, but the superficial damage was extensive. Crushed cranial crests, damaged audio dials, caved in armour.
"That would be a spark-warming sentiment if this were any other time. I am going to assume the two Autobots were the ones who let the Decepticons in," Prowl said, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. The room appeared tilted to the left, so either one of his optics was set loose in its socket or the axis of his room had suddenly shifted. "They were most likely the ones who have been watching you."
"Ah thought they'd attack meh first," Jazz murmured, sounding truly sorry. His energon-stained claws came up, pressing on Prowl's optic. There was a click, and suddenly the room stopped looking tilted. "Ah thought Ah'd be the one hunting them. Ah didn't think they'd come after you."
"If it is any consolation, I did not think anyone would attack me at all. I was wholly unprepared," Prowl said, almost smiling for the saboteur. "You're here now, though. That counts for something."
A low groan from the floor had both bots tensing. Rampage was regaining consciousness, as was the Autobot traitor who Jazz had punched out. In the doorway, the second Autobot traitor appeared. The damages Prowl had dealt to him stood out grotesquely under the stark lights. There had been enough time at the very beginning of the assault for Prowl to release a round of acid pellets before his gun was kicked away; the chest, arms, and legs of the traitor were blistered and peeling. Quickstrike looked even worse, for all the damages Jazz had inflicted on him. His lower abdomen had been speared through by his own severed tail, which now twitched as Quickstrike moved.
"Frag," Jazz cursed, glaring at Quickstrike. "Ah was hoping he'd stay down."
"You will have your chance to keep him down in a moment," Prowl said darkly.
"Hey!" someone shouted from down the hall. "Hey! What-the-pit-is-going-on!" The rev of an engine filled the narrow corridor. Prowl and Jazz watched in shock as a blue blur passed by, ramming so hard into Quickstrike's side that it sent the Decepticon sprawling across the floor. There soon came the sound of transformation as their speedy saviour transformed and began to wrestle with the Decepticon.
"Diamondback!" bellowed another bot, and the Autobot who stood in the doorway whipped around in time to have a fist pounded into the center of his faceplate. A second Autobot, this one with armour of fluorescent orange-yellow, went to the ground with the traitor called Diamondback. Their scuffle was in plain view of the open doorway, and it looked violent. Whoever the new bot was, he fought dirty.
"This is an interesting turn of events," Prowl observed evenly. "The odds look to be in our favour now."
"Let meh even the odds a little more," Jazz said, letting one of his daggers fly into the throat of the second Autobot traitor. The bot choked and flailed, and then fell motionlessly to the ground. Not dead, but close to it. It wasn't an assault; it was just a tickle.
Rampage regarded his fallen comrade with distaste. "I will not go down so easily."
"Good," said Jazz. "Ah like challenges."
As one, Prowl and Jazz launched themselves into an offensive. Jazz jumped high, slashing at Rampage's faceplate. Rampage took the saboteur by the arm and whipped him to the floor. Prowl used Jazz's distraction to pick up a fallen chair from the floor. He swung it as hard as he could, smashing it into the side of Rampage's head. The metal screeched as it crumpled and twisted. Rampage's head jerked to the side; he stumbled to one knee. Prowl raised the chair again and drove it into the back of Rampage's head. Jazz collected himself from the floor in time to rush in before Prowl could swing a third time. He grabbed Rampage by the back of his head and rammed it down onto his raised knee. A satisfying crunch followed. Rampage's olfactory sensor was nothing but an ugly memory.
Rampage did not feel the damage. His neural net was off and he was accustomed to such damages. A blade slid from his forearm and swung out at the saboteur. Jazz twisted away, only to have the serrated weapon drive into the opening in his armour where his right leg met his pelvic structure. The blade wrenched inside, destroying everything it touched. A strangled noise came out of the saboteur's mouthplates as he reached down and ripped the knife out.
Prowl dove in, swinging Jazz to safety while at the same time driving the heel of his foot into Rampage's chin. Rage propelled the strength of the attack. While Rampage's head jerked back, Prowl closed the distance by landing one heavy punch to the Decepticon's neck, caving the armour. His next punch slammed into the side of the mech's head, crushing the audio dial. Rampage's optics flickered bright for a moment before going dark. He fell to the ground unconscious again.
Prowl loomed for several astroseconds over the fallen bot, his vents heaving. Rampage did not move.
"Ah hope he's dead," Jazz sneered as he grasped his hip. He tried to take a step, but fumbled weakly. This was followed by one long, low string of curses. A heavy gush of energon oozed out between his fingers, running down his leg.
Prowl abandoned glaring at Rampage in favour of seeing to Jazz. "You should not have gotten so close-!" He admonished as he dropped to his knees, trying to pry Jazz's hands away. "How bad is it? Let me see-"
"It's nothing," Jazz said lowly.
"You're oozing all over the place and you can hardly walk!" Prowl exclaimed.
"It's just some slashed tension wires and energon lines. Nothing life threatening," Jazz grunted, attempting to hop away from his partner. He didn't want to take his hand off the wound. Without the tension wires, he no longer had articulate control over the limb. He was hobbled.
Prowl revved deeply, still determined to look after Jazz's wound.
There was movement behind them. Rampage was getting up again.
"Doesn't this mech ever stay down?" Jazz exclaimed, getting tired of Decepticons who clearly did not know when to quit.
"It does not appear that way, does it?" Prowl lurched to his feet with a pained grunt.
"We were sent here to make sure you never leave this place. Quickstrike failed," Rampage rumbled darkly. "I will make sure you never leave this place."
Prowl and Jazz braced themselves for round three.
"Don't think you're about to go anywhere, Decepti-slag." A loud shot rang out, too loud in the confines of the small room. Rampage's frame jerked hard. His optics flashed bright. And then he pitched forward, crashing to the floor with resounding finality. He was not getting up again.
Simultaneously, Jazz and Prowl's gazes jerked up. Silhouetted in the doorway was the bot with the blazing orange-yellow paint. Behind him was a blue Autobot who was currently hopping up and down to see inside.
Jazz blinked, and then smirked when he recognized his saviour. "Punch."
"Jazz." Punch grinned rakishly. "Should have had a security detail, huh? Good thing I was in the neighbourhood."
The saboteur laughed.
Prowl crouched over Rampage's motionless frame. "He's not dead."
"I shot out his spinal column," Punch said. "I figured it was best to keep him alive for now. Undoubtedly there are going to be bots who will want to question him. Dead mechs don't answer questions quite so nicely as the live ones do."
Prowl nodded, rocking back on his heels. "Security is on its way, yes?"
"I-called-as-soon-as-I-heard-the-commotion!" the blue bot in the hall announced, weaselling his way into the room. He was undoubtedly Blurr. The pitch and speed of the words as they flew from his mouthplates made them nearly unrecognizable. "They-should-be-here-any-moment! Can-you-believe-it? Decepticons-in-Tyger-Pax! I-never-would-have-suspected-Diamondback-and-Sidewinder-to-be-traitors! They-were-such-nice-bots! And-here-they-were, all-this-time...Decepticons!" He jumped from foot to foot, still charged from battle. "Good-thing-they-chose-the-wrong-bots-to-fight, right? They-could-have-gone-after-anyone, but-they-chose-you-two. Bad-luck-for-them, if-you-ask-me. Good-luck-for-us."
Prowl crouched over Sidewinder's frame, tugging out Jazz's dagger and handing it to the proper owner. Sidewinder stared up at him with dazed, dim optics. A medic would soon have to look after the wounds or else the traitor would die. The tactician sighed. "Sometimes there are statistical anomalies that are impossible to calculate for."
Jazz shot Prowl a shaded glance.
All four of them jumped as they heard movement in the hall. A soft screech, which at first they thought was the sound of Decepticons rising. Jazz snarled and Punch withdrew a second pair of stasis cuffs, if the first pair had not been enough to immobilize his opponent. As it turned out, the noise they heard was not what they thought. It was actually the sound of unconscious frames being dragged across the floor. The four bots looked up in time to see a dark shadow in the hall, hunched over as it crept along; none other than Grimm taking possession of Quickestrike and Diamondback's frames. When she had gotten there and how she had crept in so silently was a complete mystery. She had a chain wrapped around each of the Decepticons' necks to drag them inch by inch. The moment she sensed their attention, she turned her dead optics on them.
"They are mine," she said, each word coming out like boulders being slammed together down a mountainside in an explosive cacophony.
Prowl opened his mouthplates to object.
Jazz laid a steady hand to the tactician's arm. "Let her have them," he said. Grimm might have worn the Autobot decal, but Jazz understood that whatever her intentions toward the Decepticons, they would not follow Autobot regulation. The fate she intended for them was far worse than anything he might do to them.
For a moment, it looked as if Prowl would still object. He puffed up to spew proper protocol, but then saw the look in Jazz's optics. The steady defiance and a silent request for Prowl to stand down just this once. Prowl sighed, deflating entirely.
Grimm blinked slowly, and then something very frightening happened. The edges of her mouthplates curled up into something that could have been called a smile, but only because the Cybertronian language did not have a word to truly describe the horrific nature of the expression Grimm now wore. Quite like her voice, her smile was an event that seemed only appropriate to be compared to a horrible natural disaster; like the opening of a black, bottomless chasm into the depths of a dead planet where monstrous beasts lurked. The smile stayed on her faceplate as she turned away, proceeding to inch away with her condemned prizes.
Not long after, security arrived.
The aftermath of the attack was nearly as frenetic as the attack itself. Prowl and Jazz were rushed to the med bay for treatment. Several medics were on duty to attend to them, working through the night to fix all the damages wrought from battle. Thankfully, the majority of their damages was all superficial, so they would be good as soon as the dents were banged out and the wires replaced.
Grimm, as the CMO of Tyger Pax, should have been present for the repairs. She remained absent for all of the night. No one could find her, and there was no trace of what happened to Quickstrike or Diamondback. Bots started asking questions, though as soon as they found out it was Grimm who had taken the bots, they suddenly found other things to wonder about. It quickly became understood that Quickstike and Diamondback were not likely to ever be seen again. Some tried to reason that they still had Rampage and Sidewinder in custody. Two out of four was better than none.
Jazz decided that his earlier suspicion concerning Grimm, ones that involved the sucking out and subsequent devouring of victims' sparks, was perhaps not as far from the truth as he first might have imagined.
Punch and Blurr found themselves moving in and out of the med bay, getting patched up here and there. They had not suffered as extensive damages as Prowl and Jazz. Punch seemed to have taken to Jazz in the short time that they had known each other. They chatted together while medics worked to replace the cut tension wires and energon lines in the saboteur's leg. Prowl tried not to notice how easily Jazz conversed with the spy.
Throughout the following joors, commanders from all divisions made an appearance, including the base commander. They all took statements from all the bots involved. Most of them expressed sad disbelief that there were traitors among them. All of them said they would be looking into the matter and further investigating if there might be more sleeper agents hiding in their ranks. The Security Director personally assured the visiting Iaconite commander and his Neutral partner that he would be reviewing every astrosecond of security footage to see if there was anyone else on base who appeared to be collaborating with Sidewinder and Diamondback as they helped the Decepticons through the base.
For the most part, Prowl was cooperative and patient with the Paxian commanders, and wholly encouraged future investigations of their subordinates. Jazz merely snarked at them until they left him alone.
When the medics finished with their work, they looked exhausted but pleased. It would be a few orns before either bot was back to one hundred percent. Jazz's leg was still tender and Prowl's audio continued to ring despite the repairs done to it. Nevertheless, if they insisted on leaving in the morning, they were free to go. There was nothing and no one who could stop either of them from leaving if they truly wanted to go somewhere.
It was silently decided that Prowl and Jazz would gone by the time the sun fully rose.
In the wee joors of the night, the dark moments before dawn cracked over the horizon, Prowl and Jazz had been left to rest in peace in the ICU. They were alone in the large ward. The only light was supplied by the CR chambers gently glowing at one end of the room.
"Prowl," Jazz murmured, turning to his side to regard the defined shadow of his partner laying on the berth next to him. Only a small space separated them, but even such a small space felt like a yawning chasm.
"Yes?" Prowl replied. He tensed, knowing what was coming. The words had been hanging between them ever since it had been calm enough for them both to think it.
"Your brother set us up."
The tactician shuttered his optics and bowed his head. "I know."