Shout to to three very special people. Firstly, Atsadifish, you wonderful sea bass. You need hugs and kisses, more than can be sent through the internet. Secondly, to the wonderful abarai-san, who I met recently in London, and then was delighted to receive a thirty-minute long audio-review via email from her. You think writing a couple of sentences for a review is tough? Try talking for thirty minutes straights. Props to her! And thirdly, I dedicate this chapter to myself. Because I can. And because I am rather proud of myself for managing to write a decent bit of intimacy in this chapter. Prowl and Jazz are slowly creeping up on each other, closer and closer still. =P
And now, I must thank the many wonderful reviewers who brought this insane story so much closer to 2000 reviews. You guys came out of the woodwork to contribute! I am awed, humbled, and honoured that so many of you think enough of this story to read and review regularly, even after so many chapters. Thank you so much to Optimus Bob, Chistarpax, RagdolDark, mamabot, Gamemice, luirina, 16DarkMidnight80, ichigo-tsubasa, Knocks, Dragonlady86, Cybela, Anasazi Darkmoon, Zea T, ennui deMorte, Fianna9, kathy3meme, SweetIndigo, Poiseninja, Autobot Chromia, VyxenSky, Mercedes Wolfcry, AirJuvy, quasarsmom, Guest, Guest, Yami-Yugi3, Midnight Marquis, Sideslip, Deathcomes4u, Ano-Hitori-Chichi, Nikkie2010, Anodythe, TheVastraNararda, evilbunny777, XxIDontKNowxX, femme4jack, ice around the moon, electro moonlight, AliceSylvia, and Guest! Thank you for believing in this story!
Chapter 46
Prowl pried open a single optic and swept a cautious glance over his immediate surroundings.
He tried not to be obvious about it, as he was supposed to be meditating, and his current company could be frighteningly aware at times. Prowl waited to see if Jazz would react. When silence reigned, he determined the saboteur was not interested in his activities. Prowl's perusal of their current setting went unhindered; the hologram had not changed since the joor before when he had sat down for the meditation session. It was still the striking Paxian dojo of Jazz's past, curiously foreign and outdated. Despite Prowl's acquaintance with the hologram, the simulation never ceased to hold a certain amount of exotic appeal.
This was, like all the memories Jazz shared with him, a fascinating look into a world that was long gone, turned to dust millenia ago. Everywhere Prowl looked, the technologies and aesthetic tastes nearly comically outdated, and yet familiar in an odd way. He could see where the aesthetics of modern circuit-su dojos stemmed from, how they might have evolved from its primordial form represented here.
Yokétron's dojo had shared many of the same characteristics, such as the raised daises and the octagonal shape. The black and copper panelling seemed specific to this dojo only, as highly polished silver mirror panels were de rigueur of contemporary training studios. The use of weapons in circuit-su had been an antiquated concept by the time Prowl began practising it; Yokétron had not kept weapons on the premises, preferring to teach a pure form without introducing crude violence. In Jazz's past, weapons hung proudly from the black-and-copper walls, weapons that would have been commonly carried by civilians. Swords, daggers, knives; maces, axes, and collapsable bō staffs; a veritable treasure trove of lethal means of defense, underscoring the fact that personal protection had been in the hands of the weapon wielder, as there had been no Security Response back then to maintain order.
Prowl kept his interest in the dojo as subtle as he could, knowing the discomfort it would cause Jazz. The saboteur was tense enough within the simulation without anything to make it worse. He was always edgy under his smoothly nonchalant veneer – as if he expected his master to appear at any moment. There were very few times Prowl could recall when Jazz had looked even half comfortable in the hologram. Then again, considering that Xerxia was alive somewhere out there, apparently perfectly aware of Jazz's survival into the current time, perhaps Jazz was right to be wary? No matter how absurd, there still was a distant possibility that Xerxia truly could walk into this very room at any moment...
A better possibility was the chance of Jazz running off on his own to try to kill her.
With a sigh, Prowl cast a glance to side again to check on his partner. Back erect and legs folded in front of him, he was an exemplary model of deep meditation. In a rare display, his visor was retracted, exposing the well-crafted planes of his faceplate. His revealed expression was seemingly relaxed, optics closed and mouthplates curving slightly downward. In truth, with the simulated sunlight shafted down from the skylight above, he looked remote as an island, and just as lonely.
"Jazz?" Prowl called quietly.
No movement, not even a twitch. There was a stillness about the saboteur that was nearly eerie in its perfection. Were it not for the spark resonance emanating from him so strongly, it would have been easy to mistake him for a silvered statue. Was Jazz really that involved their meditation session to the exemption of all else?
"Jazz," Prowl called a little louder.
His second attempt brought about the same result. The stillness remained, somehow obscene upon someone who usually radiated with frenetic activity. Prowl was both impressed and unnerved. There was the chance that Jazz had simply fallen into recharge, remaining tense simply as a matter of being in this place. Recharge was a heartening thought, when for the last several nights Jazz had exempted recharge all together. Restlessness kept him online, urging him back upon old habits of wandering the halls at night. A rash of recent thefts told Prowl exactly what Jazz was up to.
Instead of irritation for the mischief, it was sympathy Prowl felt. He knew too well the toll it was taking to search for clues and have nothing to show for it. They were both pushing themselves, only to have their efforts unrewarded. Prowl took out his frustrations, if a bit unprofessionally, by assigning merciless punishments for even the most innocuous of infractions. Luckily, the only one that really suffered was Sideswipe, which was no real sparkache at all. Jazz simply had his own outlets for vexations, thankfully keeping them tame.
"Jazz?" Prowl asked one last time, feeling silly for doing so. He expected no answer, and recieved none. Being no fool, Prowl accepted that three times was enough. It was time for a change of scenery. Not that he did not find the dojo still interesting, but he was in need of something to help him focus and think.
As quietly as he could, he made his way over to the hidden control panel. Upon his approach, the hologram pixelated and withdrew, exposing both door and panel. Glad for Ratchet's recent release on his interfacial hub, Prowl connected with the system and downloaded the necessary program. The dojo disappeared, replaced with a temporary whitewashed grid. The projectors whirred, readjusting themselves, and then the new scene began to take shape.
A single room, much smaller than the size of the holodeck itself. Walls of slate grey metal, burnished in a layer of thick grime. There was a window at Prowl's back, revealing a narrow, featureless hallway. The room was exactly as Prowl remembered it, down to the dim lighting and the abandoned berth sitting crooked in the middle. The only thing the vision lacked was the cloying stench of rot.
Leaning around to make sure his partner was within the boundaries of the new simulation, Prowl found Jazz in the exact spot he had been left. No longer perched upon the dais of the dojo, it now it appeared that he sat upon the grewsome floor. The saboteur gave no sign of realizing the change.
To stand within the room shot a thrill through Prowl's spark, lashing hot and cold through his energon. Bracing himself, Prowl looked up, meeting the leering symbol on the wall. It was as he remembered it, one large circle wider than the width of his arm span, containing a single symbol in the shape of a trident. Despite being completely inanimate, the symbol managed to glare accusingly.
In his head, an insidious voice whispered, She's dead because of you.
Yes, she is dead because of me, Prowl agreed solemnly, waiting for the customary guilt to hit. It always came, no matter the impetus for the thoughts, the strength of it increasing the more he rejected it.
Right on time, guilt hit in a searing hot rush. Just the initial touch had him recoiling, the potency of the memory that provoked the emotions still strong enough to leave him stunned. His first reaction was to push it away immediately, think of something else before the hurt had a chance to dig its claws in. His poor defense against his own weakness. But Prowl was no longer as weak as he once was.
What was all this ridiculous training for, if not to teach him to be the master of himself?
For the first time in a long time, Prowl dared to linger on that frightful precipice before that deadly fall. He dared to look over the ledge into the abyssal blackness, into the spark of what he had been too cowardly to even glimpse before. What he saw lurking no longer scared him. There would come an orn when he mastered all parts of himself, the guilt of Evasia's death included. It felt right to face it here, under the glaring mark that had taken her away from him.
He braced himself, welcoming the storm, only to find himself knocked airless when the full rush of it bowled into him. Prowl's mind swept blank for several instances, scrambling to reassemble. Remembered guilt, locked away for so long in his refusal to even countenance one of his greatest failures, possessed a backlash all its own that nearly managed to throw him from his feet. Sucking in air desperately, Prowl shored up against the howling brunt of the storm.
With the guilt came his many regrets. Evasia, while being the catalyst of so many good things in his life, was also the epicentre of all the worst. She was his greatest regret. All the things Prowl could have been, the true potential he could have reached, had died with her. So many regrets as a result of the shade he had become; powerful and efficient in mind, a prodigy of the many logical virtues he had extolled, but so weak of spark that he might as well have been a ghost. If not for his stupidity, he never would have developed Emotional Maximum Output Syndrome. The emotional backlashes would have been a thing of fantasy, never to darken his mind.
Prowl could have been normal...
Hand in hand with reget was always longing. The what ifs of a past made differently. The wish that the present could be remade in a better image. Longings he had not felt in a long time bloomed to life, forced into dormancy because of the pain they offered, burgeoning overfull in his spark until they formed a physical ache. He choked on them, desperate to deny them, but helpless not to want them. Lives he never got to live. Love he never got to feel. Always, it was disappointment that came to temper the longing, dragging him back into bleak, barren wasteland.
She is dead, whispered that horrible voice, because of you.
Prowl had not the strength for denial. Evasia's death could be laid squarely at his feet. It was his fault, all his fault, and he accepted that. He remembered her death, kept it close, so that he never made the same mistakes again. In his mind, he saw the last fleeting image of Fifth of Five, her back towards him as she ran headlong into that damned building. The heat of the moment. The dark of the covered streets. And then he saw the soot-covered teal chevon thrown at his feet in the aftermath.
Because of you.
The guilt, regrets, and longing were slowly swallowed by another terrible emotion familiar to Prowl. Spawned of watching senseless violence, of living senseless violence, the disease of hatred had spored inside him, taken root, and fed on the bounty Prowl readily provided. His constant companion in all things, the oozing blackness bubbled up from his spark and sucked in all other feeling. It was strong, roaring with the sheer force of it. So strong that it overtook his vision, causing him to blackout. Hate so strong that it spiked his internal temperature, caused his limbs to tremble with it, his spark to give an electric shriek. He was filled to the brim with hate, choking on it, slowly dying from the malignant tumour it formed in his spark.
Vents seizing, suddenly drowning, Prowl stumbled, reached out, and caught himself on the holographic wall. Solid beneath his hands, real enough despite being an illusion, he clung like it was a raft in the middle of a storm. He dug his fingers in until the tips gouged into the holo-matrix. Mind spinning, it took a moment to remember what the point of his current exercise was. Why did he endure, when he could simply throw it all away and retreat under the safety of calm logic?
Evasia's faceplate flashed in his mind, smiling proudly rather than frowning in disappointment. His vision of her looked as she did in Prowl's hallucination while he had been left to the elements in the pole. Her ghostly voice, so near yet so far, echoed in his audios.
I know this is a hard concept for you, but forgiving yourself is healthy, Prowl.
She faded fast, replaced by another faceplate – silvered, visored, and bearing a smirk. Like a slap to the faceplate, it startled Prowl, and managed to remind him of exactly what he was doing: he wanted to get better. Stronger. The only way to do that was to get control, become the master of his unmanageable states.
He was not about to let Evasia's life nor Jazz's efforts be in vain.
Prowl did not know how long it took to battle back the surging tide. Certainly, it took longer than he cared to admit. Stranger than fighting a backlash, the memories stuck like tar rather than rush past him in a jumble. Bracing under his own memories, and the undealt emotions that came with them, was like sloughing through liquid mercy – heavy, weighing him down, threatening to swallow him whole and drag him down into the dark. Sticky tendrils that latched on and did not want to let go.
It felt like a century's worth of being under seige, bracing under an unending onslaught. The solidity of reality wavered, and the only thing that seemed real anymore was another distant voice muttering in his audio, encouragement, of a sort – unquestionably in Jazz's deep voice, animated by his unique accents.
Got ta break it down before ya can rebuild.
A lesson taught to the saboteur long ago, passed on to Prowl. He had already been stripped raw, down to the neural circuits and spark. He had been dragged through the pit, and then promptly dragged through the South Pole. There was no smaller element Prowl could break down into. It was time he put his efforts into conscientiously rebuilding.
Air rattled as he sucked in hard through his vents. Screwed his optics shut. Did his best to resist the cloying, heavy pull of guilt trying to drag him down. There was no sudden break in the clouds. No exalting moment of victory. The process was gradual. Vices locked tight around his chest, holding his spark captive, only easing little by little. Optics still shut tight, Prowl did not see when the black haze cleared from his vision and lights shone again. He sucked in air, only to realize he did not have to fight an airless vacuum. His frame, still stiff, was not so heavy.
Blinking his optics open, Prowl stood trembling and cold against the wall, staring down at the floor as if shocked to see his own two feet standing beneath him. The sound of metal chinking together revealed the severity of his shaking, armour plates rattling in their moorings. Weakness flooded him, lacking in any sense of pride or victory. Numb and stunned, if anything. Perhaps a little (a lot) bewildered over his accomplishment. His knees cracked against the floor, taking his weight fully and painfully.
Prowl fought against the dizzying need to passout. He felt his mind in tatters, frayed lines of code and disrupted streams of data. He grasped at strings, trying to put himself back together. It was not until he was standing on his feet again that he realized what he was feeling, and the surprise of the revelation nearly put him back on his knees again. The reason he did not feel victorious was because he still felt the guilt and regret and longing as he did before. They were not gone, not defeated, not pushed from his mind as he thought they should be; he still felt them, weighing down on him, but not crippling. Barely controlled, yes, but at least not slowly killing him.
An uneasy truce, Prowl thought wryly, knowing this was a small victory in the grand scheme of things. Facing a potent set of emotions attached to a certain set of memories was only a single step to mastering a whole lifetime of memories and an entire spectrum of emotions.
The soft sound that blew from between his mouthplates was nearly a laugh.
Then Prowl remembered where he was. Underneath his fingers, he traced the curving outside line of the cultist symbol, feeling the sharp edge of it gracing his fingertip. The hologram of Shockwave's lab loomed larger than life around him.
"Psi ex Machina," Prowl breathed, daring the tenuous grip he had on himself. His innards trembled. Again he felt compelled to whisper the name of the cult that haunted his past; breathing the name becoming something like a compulsion, a catharsis. As if he could exorcise it from his frame. His voice was stronger the second time around. "Psi ex Machina."
This time, no tremble. The manacle of the past, it seemed, had loosened its grip – if only by a little.
Behind him, Jazz cracked his optics open. He had not been recharging during the ordeal; he'd heard Prowl calling and simply ignored him. At the time, focusing on what he would do about the irritating problem of Elita One and the other commanders closing in on him was more important than whatever Prowl had to say. His interest in the topic only lasted so long until his senses had prickled, hissing that something more interesting was happening. Although one of his greatest strengths with his Sight, Jazz had fallen back on his other senses to observe the tactician. What Jazz had witness impressed him deeply.
Prowl sensed the stare, glancing back. His expression was a myriad of mixed feelings, so much so that his faceplate became unreadable in the mess of it.
"Oh," he croaked, forcing himself to clear his vents and rev his vocal processor. "Jazz."
"Prowl," the saboteur replied evenly.
Further words failed him. Prowl waited in the silence for the nausea to fade. Go figure one of his biggest victories in recent vorns, and it was something to make him sick and miserable in the aftermath of it.
"Ya wanna talk about it?" Jazz asked, unfolding slowly from his sitting position. He gained his feet, took two steps, and then slid up onto the abandoned berth just behind Prowl. Notably, he kept his space instead of coming too close.
"Not just yet," Prowl admitted hoarsely, shuttering his optics as another burning wave surged up from his spark. He was grateful for the space, reducing the risk of accidentally purging on his friend. That would be one humiliation too far.
Eternity passed by. One by one, Prowl's fingers unclenched until he could call his fists hands again. His legs bore his weight unsteadily. Finally, he forced his frame to turn fully from the wall. Jazz waited for him, silent, watchful. Those intelligent white optics watched him with strange knowing and ancient understanding.
"That," Prowl coughed, "was very uncomfortable."
Jazz chuckled subduedly, giving a nod.
The back of Prowl's hand graced his mouthplates, finding an embarrassing dribble of energon on his chin. "I do not see why anyone would purposely want to feel like this."
Jazz rolled his optics. "There is not a single bot on the planet who would want ta feel the way ya feel. Most bots can only handle small doses of-," he paused, perusing Prowl to determine what sorts of madness the tactician had been indulging in, "-guilt and regret. Most bots can only handle small doses of anything." Another flick of a silver hand in the air. "You take the absolute worst there is ta offer, full dose, no holds barred, and ya still manage ta stand on your own afterwards."
Prowl revved, endlessly amazed by how incredibly astute his partner was, and how nonchalant the saboteur could be about using his considerable talents. Jazz's compliments were carefully dismissed. Prowl did not want to linger on them, or else they might distract him from his current task of resettling his mind.
"Ah'm proud of ya," Jazz announced, as if purposefully meaning to knock Prowl's attention onto its axis.
"It... is not as if I have not done this before," Prowl replied carefully, then amended with, "Backlashes are fairly similar to..."
Jazz rolled his optics, muttering something in Kev. The only reason he did so was to vex Prowl, knowing the tactician would never find a proper translation for the dead language. Prowl's gaze remained sullenly on his partner, waiting warily for the next words that would inevitably come in Main Cybertronian. To his luck, his wait was not long. To his relief, they were not inflammatory words, but rather ones of sympathy.
"Ah know it hurts when it rages inside ya, like it's alive... Tearing ya apart from the inside out." A clawed hand pushed at his chest. A bare few fortnights ago, Jazz had been raging like that, out of control out in the wastelands while he threw his tantrum over Xerxia. "At first, it feels like you're dying, but then ya get stronger. Ya learn that you're stronger than anything ya can be made ta feel."
"I do not feel stronger at the moment. I feel the opposite," Prowl groaned, leaning back against the wall.
"Ya will, soon," Jazz assured, pride undisguised in his tone. "You'll be stronger than meh some orn."
At that, Prowl shot the silver bot a sharp look. "Hardly."
Jazz laughed softly. "It's not just pretty words, Prowl. In some ways, Ah think you're already stronger than meh." To his credit, he did sound reluctant to admit such a blasphemous truth. But underlying that, there was subtle admiration.
"This was just an experiment, Jazz," Prowl mumbled mulishly. "I wanted to see if I could do it. This was a small task, insignificant, compared to what was done to you."
"Would ya stop being so hard on yourself?" Jazz admonished. "What Ah went through happened a long time ago. Ah didn't have a choice, so Ah endured it. You... You have the choice, and ya chose ta do this. Ya put yourself through this willingly ta get stronger, ta be better. Ya don't think that counts?"
"It's not-"
"The same?" A snort sounded. "Of course not. If Ah had ta go through what you go through every orn, Ah'd lose mah mind. Ah felt what it's like in your head and Ah still don't know how ya do it. You're stronger than ya give yourself credit for."
"I am perfectly aware of what my strengths are, Jazz, and they happen to be patently different from yours," Prowl said dryly. "I am not so humble as to deny that I fully deserve my commanding rank. My tactical skills far exceed all others on base. But, I am wise enough to acknowledge that I am also weak, and I aim to get better."
Jazz grinned, his whole faceplate animating brightly in stark contrast to their unnerving setting.
"I know I have the potential to be better than I am, which is enough for me," Prowl moderated, keeping the grinning saboteur in his sights. "I have a goal to work towards, and now I have evidence that I am achieving that goal in some small manner. I have you to thank for that."
Jazz's grin softened around the edges. His optics warmed, and there was almost a blueness about the glow. "You're in over your head, Prowler. How are ya ever gonna pay off all your debts ta meh?"
The question prompted Prowl to almost smile, unthreatened, lurching away from the wall. "I think I have been in over my head since I met you."
Jazz's optic ridges arched, but that grin remained.
Without help, Prowl heaved his frame up onto the berth next to his friend's. The holomatrix wavered under their combined weight, threatening to burst apart. Both bots tensed, waiting to see what would happen. Thankfully, the computers adjusted and the matrix strengthed and settled.
Jazz clapped a hand on Prowl's knee and patted him comfortingly a few times. In return, the tactician flapped his doorwings, brushing Jazz's back with one, causing Jazz to tilt his head back and laugh.
Prowl chuckled lowly, hidden beneath the sound of the saboteur's rich laughter. "Do you ever find it unnerving how unbalanced our relationship is at times?"
Jazz's mirth quieted, still sparkling in his lively gaze. "When did we go from 'partnership' to 'relationship'?"
Pale blue optics blinked absently. "Do you want me to name a date?"
"Can ya?"
"No, so I won't even try," Prowl replied, staring at his hands. "We are simply friends now. You will have to accept it as I do."
"All right," the saboteur shrugged, showing remarkable acceptance. "We're friends, in an unbalanced relationship. Ah'm the unbalanced part, aren't Ah?"
The tactician shot Jazz a wry look. "I don't mean 'unbalanced' as warped, because, yes, our association with each other is certainly that-"
Jazz snorted.
Prowl slid him another dry look. "But, I am actually referring to how much we owe each other. To think of it, despite you being the Decepticon of the equation, you have managed to give me far more than I can offer you. My life alone is in your debt several times over."
An exaggerated disgusted sigh heaved from the silver bot. "That's only 'cause you're looking at the tiny details and adding them up one by one."
"I am glad you noticed my mastery of basic mathematics."
That bout of sarcasm earned him a flick upside the head.
"Yeah, sure, Ah've saved your life a couple more times than you've saved mine, but Ah'm not here because ya owe meh. Idiot," he added in a low hiss. A small smile, sincere but reserved, played at the corners of the saboteur's mouthplates, softening the blow of the insult. "If ya look at the big picture, Ah still owe ya more than Ah can ever repay."
A pause, a moment of consideration, and then Prowl heard himself asking, "How so?"
There was no hesitation when Jazz replied. "Because Ah'm here."
Prowl blinked, his features sliding into a confused frown.
Jazz leaned forward, bracing his hands on the berth, staring ahead without really seeing. "Ah'm here, Prowler. Understand?"
"I am not sure that I do." But he wanted to, desperately. Whatever Jazz meant by it, the depth of his meaning shone in his optics, invested in every line of his frame. Prowl... thought he knew what Jazz meant, but it would have been wrong to jump to conclusions. He wanted to hear it straight from the saboteur's mouthplates.
"Don't ya? Ah'm not what Ah was, Prowler. Thanks ta you, Ah'm different, here, in this place. " The words were followed by a breathless laugh. "The moment Ah met ya, ya made the whole world stop. Ah haven't been able ta look away from ya since."
Prowl heard himself chuckle, warmed by a sudden flood of affection. It should have disturbed him, that affection. Instead, he welcomed the warmth to replace the coldness that frosted his insides. It felt like he had been cold for centuries, for most of his life. Letting Jazz melt a little of the glacier was unspeakably dangerous, but at the moment Prowl could not bring himself to care.
Jazz shuffled closer, bringing more warmth to suffuse into Prowl's frame. His voice was low as he spoke, sincerity ringing in the words. "Bringing meh here gave meh a second chance at life. Ah see that now... Ah think Ah'm at peace with it." He shrugged. "Ah didn't know Ah wanted ta be something different until Ah was something different, and then Ah knew Ah didn't want ta go back ta being the old meh."
The stutter-thump of Prowl's spark in his sparkcase resounded loudly in his audios. He thought he could almost hear Jazz's spark tapping a nervous rhythm.
Clearly struggling for the words, Jazz continued with his careful admission. "Ah have a home now. Ah have bots that give a damn about meh. Ah have friends. Ah'm... an almost decent bot, thanks ta you." His shoulder nudged meaningfully against Prowl's. "If fixing ya up and smoothing out your rough edges is how Ah repay ya for everything you've done for meh, then so be it. Ah pay the price. It's worth it."
Truly and deeply touched, Prowl floundered for something equally as meaningful. Before he had a chance to deliver something pathetically lacking in equal emotional depth, Jazz delivered the last line to his impassioned delivery that absolutely slayed Prowl.
"Ya make meh better than what Ah was."
Prowl's spark broke on its own accord.
"Ah won't ever be able ta repay ya for a debt like that," Jazz admitted quietly.
"You... don't have to," Prowl mumbled, wracking his processor for something proper to say. Anything to say. Why couldn't he have nice words prepared for such an occasions? All he had were awkward emotions too big for him to handle, and pre-grammed files of instructions on proper social exchanges. At least the latter was minutely helpful. "I believe proper procedure for friends is to... reconcile debts."
He shot a quick glance the saboteur's way.
Jazz shot him a look at the exact same moment.
"So," said the saboteur, carefully, measuring the words. "We call it even on the grounds that we're friends?" Very briefly, he looked like he did when considering an important deal. Like when Sideswipe came to him with whispered offers of what sorts of illicit materials he had stored away. In the next moment, Jazz looked very much like he wanted to take the tenuous bargain Prowl offered.
"Yes, we settle on the grounds of our friendship," Prowl said lamely. "We needn't speak of this again."
Jazz cleared his vents as the true meaningfulness of the moment caught up with him. "Ah've never had a friend before."
"I have. I had a few. A long time ago. None like you, though." Feeling incredibly stupid, Prowl twisted around and offered his hand. "We shake on it."
In the end, the saboteur reached out. They gripped hands tightly, both wondering if this was truly the stupidest thing they have ever done. But then they dropped their grips and stopped touching each other, feeling weirdly proud of themselves that they had officially decided to be friends and absolve their debts to each other. Oddly, they felt lighter for it.
Prowl straightened up, his optic catching on the Machina symbol looming over him. It held less power over him than it did just moments ago. He was suddenly determined as he announced, "I think it is time I share more of myself with you."
A quietly bemused smile appeared on the saboteur's faceplate. "In the name of friendship, right?"
"Not quite," Prowl moderated, grimacing. "I have been putting this off for long enough. You should know how I came into contact with the Psi ex Machina. I have been remiss in not saying anything sooner."
Jazz disguised his surprise well. All he said was, "Oh."
"It may not help our investigation, but it will give you a better idea of how they work."
"Ah was wondering when ya were going ta say anything about it." The saboteur was as cool as could be, giving away nothing of the seething curiosity Prowl knew was there just beneath the surface. "We've been back for a while now and ya kept skirting the issue."
"You could have asked."
A single shoulder tilted up in a dismissive shrug. "Didn't want ta push."
Prowl chuckled again. "The story is not worth pushing for, in any case. It is actually rather tame."
"Let meh be the judge of that," Jazz said.
"If you wish." Prowl canted his head, wondering where the most logical place to start was. The beginning, obviously. "As an officer, I had distinguished myself early in my career for my exemplary work. It was no secret in the precinct that I rejected emotions, refused to learn them, and stringently lobbied against others having them in the workplace." He coughed into his fist as a wash of embarrassment rolled through him, the intensity of it making him obscenely uncomfortable.
Jazz, rather than tease him, motioned for him to go on.
Prowl acquiesced immediately. "Part of my distinguishment was due to several reports I had submitted, most of them private but a few of them public, stressing the need for logic and efficiency in high-stress, high-risk functions. I suggested the possibility of installing inhibiters in future pre-programs to prevent them from emotional development. I also suggested, in a manner I now realize was uncouth, the immediate development of a functional mental sequestering program for bots who had already developed emotions and required them to be set aside for their function."
"Ah," Jazz said, nodding sagely. "So no question how ya caught the attention of a bunch of logic-worshipping, emotion-rejecting machinist purists."
Prowl jerked a curt nod. "No doubt my inflammatory reports were the catalyst for their attention. I suspect the Machina made first contact with me in the form of a Civilian Service Report. Someone anonymously submitted one for me, congratulating me on my enlightened thinking and excellent suggestions to improve Simfur's workforce." But the memory of it sat ill with Prowl, chastising himself that he should have known right from that very moment that something was terribly wrong. No matter how illogical, he should have known.
Again, free from accusation, Jazz prompted Prowl to go on.
Prowl took his cue, freeing himself to express the whole story. It was an interesting exercise, though taxing on his already stressed mental capacities. Never a talkative bot, speaking at length about himself, particularly about this private side of his life, was... mildly frightening. He fought back the guilt, refusing to let it gain a foothold. Instead, his focus was on his story. He revealed the long courtship he held with the Psi ex Machina as they danced cautious attendance upon him. A long, slow dance around him, drawing him deeper into their web without him realizing something more wicked was happening.
First, the Machina conveyed their crafted praised through service reports. They never came too often, and always from different districts Prowl had patrolled recently. They were not overly effusive with praise, as to be expected from emotion-rejecting machinist purists, but it was seemingly honest and straightforward - of the sort Prowl, at the time very young and still very entrenched in his unemotional ways, appreciated. Soon, the Civilian Service Reports turned to personal messages delivered through couriers, never the same one twice, and always anonymously. The messages were still of praise, morphing slowly into sincere correspondence between the young officer and his mysterious admirers.
Prowl, though mostly emotionless at the time, still had his pride. He had believed that the praise was his due for his efforts. He had welcomed the anonymous admirers, encouraging them to share their views. Prowl had expanded his own thinking upon the advice they subtly offered. There had been no connection to an ancient underground faction of cultists. It was all very innocent in those early times.
When Prowl had started developing emotions of his own, it did not dampen his efforts to make his precinct more efficient. In some cases, he became even more zealous about dampening emotions. In other cases, he managed to recognize that, perhaps, emotions were not so bad... No matter his wavering views, he continued to submit reports on the need for less emotiveness in the workplace. The Psi ex Machina continued their praise, slowly evolving into coy critiques and careful suggestions. In hindsight, Prowl could see their hidden threats between the careful praise, warning him not to turn away from the cold machine he was.
In the present, Prowl almost wished he had taken their advice.
Despite never knowing who his correspondents were, Prowl's admiration for them grew. He took their suggestions to spark, bringing those views into the workplace, pushing certain agendas that were brought to his attention through his private correspondence. He told no one of his secret, as there had been no perceived threat at the time. Anyone who asked was blindfolded by a lie. Despite the innocence of Prowl's connection, he knew as much as to tell no one. Much to his own shame, Prowl admitted that soon he had become so inveigled by his secret conspirators that he had began offering information when they asked, seeing no harm in such seemingly trivial questions.
But soon, the story took a darker turn. Prowl recalled the nervousness that gripped him the first time he had been invited to meet with his ghostwriters. The innocent association thus far was such that Prowl had been eager to meet with whomever showed up, curious to see who in Simfur held views so akin to his own. At first, he had only met with one bot. Then two. Never in the same location. Always somewhere carefully chosen to be out of the way, least likely to be noticed. The camaraderie Prowl felt for the bots was instant and powerful. They were bots who thought like him, acted like him; his want to be accepted blinded him, tangling himself deeper into the web they were weaving.
Until finally, one orn, he was invited to come to a meeting.
Where was the harm in an invitation? A simple, unassuming invitation to join with a group of likeminded bots who thought Prowl would be an excellent addition to their ranks. He was, of course, warned that his proclivities with emotions would not be welcomed. Those, he would have to leave at home. One of the reasons his journey into learning them had been so difficult was that contrasting Evasia's encouragement to learn, there had been members of the Psi ex Machina warning him of the dangers. Careful to appear as well-meaning, experienced bots who knew the pitfalls of the emotional spectrum, Prowl had taken their cautions to spark and resisted his transformation.
He had masked his emotions as best he could, his efforts rewarded when more invitations came his way. The Machina had in no way seemed dangerous in those first meetings. Maybe a little darker, more elusive that Prowl was accustomed to, but not dangerous. They had been a collection of intellectuals, harmless creatures with obvious interests in the meaning of being a machine. Prowl had embraced their doctrines, rejecting the Old Ways of savagery and violence, of uncontrollable emotions and the chaos created from them. They embraced science and logic, extolling the virtues of order and knowledge being the vehicles to guiding Cybertron into a new age. Prowl let their ideas become his own.
To him, it began to make perfect sense that machines were machines. They should act like machines. Everything should be cold, calculated, and logical. There should be order in the world, all citizens moving in perfect mechanized clockwork. Chaos only existed in the spark, the seat of their emotions, their individuality, their life. The only conclusion was to reject the spark, ignoring the impulses it imposed upon the machine. Cybertronians were at such an advanced stage that they would soon evolve to a point where their sparks were superfluous, and then they would truly be rid of the taint. They would be free to be true machines.
Their meetings had been quiet, unobtrusive affairs held in dim rooms, where parties could discuss topics with each other in hushed tones. Attendance never exceeded more than a dozen or so. No specific designations were ever mentioned. Associative decals were covered. Wide range dampers made sure no one ever recognized another member by spark resonance. They all recognized each other by a single, subtle mark: a trident held within a circle.
Perhaps the most rebellious thing Prowl had ever done before the war was get that mark for himself. He technically did not own the frame he lived in as an officer, and any modifications were supposed to be cleared by the captain of his precinct. Swept up into the feeling of being a part of something greater, Prowl had consented to being engraved. He became one of them in the most cursory of ways, craving to become more.
By this time, he had researched the mark and the group, determined who they were, and came to the conclusion that the reports had it wrong. The Machina never could have gone from city to city, snatching bots off the street to experiment on them. They did not elude authorities with wanton disregard, throwing up fear and chaos wherever they went. The group only discussed taking up the purity of the machine, they did not act it out. Not even when bots disappeared in his own city did Prowl connect the two. He, with his insider information and experience, knew better than history. The Psi ex Machina were a misunderstood group, exiled from public society because of their supposedly radical views.
Prowl had been fully prepared to join their cause.
Only... Evasia had been too clever to hide from forever. She caught on to his affair with the cult. Nearly too late, discovering the mark on inside plating of his wrist. She'd railed and wailed and harangued him for the details until Prowl flung them at her feet in hopes that she would stop. He'd poured out everything, every detail, sparing nothing for the creature he so deeply had loved. His spark had twisted with the words that purged from his mouthplates, his tanks roiling sickly, someplace inside of him realizing how deeply entangled he had become. The relief to tell someone took away a weight he did not know had been crushing him.
Her horror over his stupidity had affected him deeply. So had her rage, her denial, her hope that Prowl could break away. She'd drilled him raw over the many sins of the group. The bots they had hurt, the laws they broke, the unspeakable atrocities they 'experimented' with; yes, they were scientists and intellectuals who favoured the nature of the logical machine, but it was at the cost of all else. Even life. Hands around his neck, she'd throttled him with a fury to rival any enraged beast. And when the volatile emotions had drained out, she'd sat in front of him and cried for joors that he had been so willing to toss away the love she had taught him to feel.
Her crying had hurt him like a physical blow never could.
Because of Evasia... For Evasia, Prowl vowed to stay away. Betrayed, horrified by his own naiveté, Prowl held no qualms in renouncing the Psi ex Machina. In hindsight, he saw the indoctrination they had slowly put him through, causing him to loosen his hold on the morality that Security Response had programmed into him. In retaliation, he fought to regain that morality, fought for everything he had supposedly lost under their manipulations. He had been forced to reprogram himself, carefully selecting and rewriting his core data, painstakingly editing everything until the taint of the Machina was gone.
Evasia's love for him had been such that she refused to turn him in. She helped him hide, helped reprogram him, held his hand when large chunks of data were deleted and he's been left spasming and sick from the massive data loss. On the night that he had been meant to join as a full member, Evasia had secreted him away from the capitol. She arranged his protection secretly, making sure he was never alone, that the Machina never had a chance to hurt him. It was she, not he, who cut the ties to the cult completely. Looming over him, protecting him, acting as both shield and sword.
Her only flaw had been her failure to protect herself...
"They...?"
"Yes."
Jazz bowed his head, shuttering his optics.
Prowl breathed out a long, shaking breath, discovering he was close to crying. The feeling was foreign – the tightness around his spark, the rawness that ran from his mouthplates down to his tanks. Shuddering, weak, and yet so wound up he felt like he might explode. He hadn't cried in a very long time. A sound escaped his vocal processor, something between a croak and cough. He shuttered his optics as well, so Jazz did not see the turmoil stirring within them. Useless, because Jazz saw everything anyways.
"Ah'm sorry they got ta ya," Jazz murmured, and then amended with, "Ah'm sorry they got ta her."
"I am sorry as well," Prowl croaked hoarsely.
It was so quiet in the holodeck that they could hear the generators humming. Jazz revved quietly, looking devastated. Perhaps not as deeply affected as Prowl, but certainly there was the pain of sympathy there. His arm raised, curled about Prowl's shoulders, and drew him close for wordless comfort. Jazz had never tried to comfort anyone like that before, evidenced by his awkwardness as he patted Prowl's opposite shoulder, but he was trying. Prowl accepted the saboteur's generosity, leaning on him. He resisted mentioning that the position was uncomfortable due to Jazz's shorter stature.
In the silence, Jazz quietly said, "You can...cry, if ya want ta." The tone he used said he wanted exactly the opposite.
"I am not going to cry," Prowl said determinedly.
"Good," Jazz sighed, relieved. "Master those feelings, like Ah've been teaching ya."
Prowl took several breems to "master" the new emotion battering his insides. He decided that it had been a poor show of judgment challenging himself with one memory, and then digging up even more painful memories to compound the first. The weakness annoyed him, irking and itching. He hoped to be stronger soon, able to handle more complex emotions, able to deal with his myriad of awful memories.
Jazz made a humming noise, remotely accessing the controls to the holodeck. Not much could be done through a remote connection, but he managed to turn off the generators. Shockwave's lab pixelated, and then shattered. They were left in peace in the empty range, gently lowered to the floor so they sat on cold metal.
Prowl was glad to have the Psi ex Machina symbol no longer glaring at him. "And to think," he muttered, "I was only a pawn to them, easily replaced by the next bot."
"The next bot who happened ta be Kingpin," Jazz sneered.
Darkness flashed across Prowl's faceplate, hardening his features. "We don't know that for sure. He could have joined before and offered my designation. Who knows? I was never close to him in Simfur. He kept his distance from everyone. I cannot say that I am surprised that he turned out to be Psi ex Machina on top of being Decepticon. It's fitting."
"He's dead now," Jazz spat. "Can't even mine his processor for answers. But ya know what?" The glint in his optics was venomous.
"What?"
"Ah'm glad Ah killed him." At the raising of Prowl's optic ridges, Jazz raised his chin and said, "Ah think Ah avenged Evasia for ya. They took someone from you, so Ah took someone from them."
The vehemence of the words caused the corners of Prowl's mouthplates to twitch. A contradictory action, perhaps, to be glad that Jazz had violently slain someone – one of Prowl's own cadre, to be exact – and yet Prowl took an awful form of satisfaction in the knowledge. There was a special well of hatred inside him reserved purely for the cult who had sparked the ruination of his life. He would be lying if he said he had not dreamed of wanting to destroy every creature to ever bear their mark. Knowing Jazz had killed one of them, possibly one of the few left to survive through the war, and thus dealing a crucial blow to the Machina ranks, was sickeningly sweet.
"Ah'm glad ya told meh all of that," Jazz said, withdrawing his arm from around Prowl, lurching to his feet. "You're right, though. It doesn't help much. But still, Ah'm glad ya told meh. It's another thing Ah can file away about ya."
Prowl grimaced.
With a grunt, Jazz hauled Prowl to his feet.
"While we're on the subject of the Psi ex Machina and Shockwave, Ah think Ah'm gonna head out to the borderland between Iacon and Axiom Nexis," said the saboteur. He tried to sound as nonchalant as possible. "Soon. In the next couple of orns, maybe. It'll be a quick, short mission."
A sudden flood of rage reared inside of Prowl, but it was not for Jazz. It was for the Decepticon pulling all the strings, evading them at every turn. That, too, took a moment to rein in before he was confident enough to speak. "You are going to Shockwave's lab out there?"
"Yeah." Jazz glanced at the locked range door. "It's a long shot, but Ah want ta see if there's anything worth finding there. Research isn't bringing anything up, and no one else is having any luck in the field. We're stuck on trying ta find Shockwave."
"Didn't the twins blow the place up after you trashed it?" Prowl wondered, following Jazz when the saboteur started for the exit.
"Yeah, it's probably nothing but rubble."
"We've left the place sitting for too long." Prowl inclined his head, stumbling a step on uncoordinated feet. His mind was racing, itching and hot from so many mixed up emotions battling it out for dominance. "Chances are, the site has already been cleared of everything valuable by Decepticons and scavengers. You are not likely to find anything useful."
Jazz bent over the controls, easily imputting the unlocking sequence. "Like Ah said, it's a long shot, but Ah'm getting desperate. Ya understand, don't ya?"
"Yes, of course I do," Prowl intoned cautiously. "But... I can't go with you."
The door slid open. There was a small group gathered on the other side, patiently waiting their turn even though Jazz and Prowl had managed to go over their time. Jazz dismissed the group with a disinterested look. His attention returned to Prowl, beckoning him to follow.
"Ah figured as much. Ya have a function here. Ya have responsibilities." Silver shoulders shrugged. "Ah'm mostly a freeloader. Ah can come and go Ah a need ta."
Prowl arched an optic ridge. "I can't disagree with you."
"Thanks."
They breezed past the other Autobots, ignoring them. The Autobots mostly ignored them in return, as Prowl and Jazz were no longer all that interesting to gossip about. The Twins were currently all the rage in the rumour mill after their recent release from the med bay. Sunstreaker had recovered poorly, perfect in physical condition but worse off mentally. He was a raging cage of feral ferocity, dragging his brother down with him through their bond, and bets were being taken for when the pair would snap.
Prowl pursed his mouthplates, frowning. "I can't stop you if you go to the borderlands, but at least promise me you will take someone with you."
"Ya don't trust meh?" He sounded hurt with the accusation.
"Not at all," Prowl assured, irritated. "I want you to be safe. If I cannot be there to watch your back, let someone else do it. Preferably someone better in the field than myself."
The extra bot would slow him down, no doubt. Few bots were up to Jazz's calibre of trapezing about unhindered. On the other hand, it also meant extra safety and peace of mind. Prowl silently pleaded for his friend to understand. His request was not a restriction, but an admission of worry. Of... caring. He wanted Jazz to come home in as many pieces as he left in.
Jazz's faceplate wrinkled, crumpled, scowling like a bad taste was in his mouthplates, only to heave a disgusted sigh. The sweet sound of reluctant capitulation.
"Fine," he growled, still scowling. "One bot. Ah choose who."
"Deal," Prowl said quickly, not allowing any room for backing out. "Now you swear it."
Now incredulity warred with exasperation in Jazz's alarmed optics.
"Swear it," Prowl ordered.
Growling, cursing, Jazz made a few choice, muttered comments before snapping, "Ah swear!"
Appeased, Prowl subsided.
Jazz looked murderous. "Only reason Ah agreed is because of what ya told meh. Otherwise, ya can suck mah exhaust, Prowl."
Prowl hurried to pace alongside his furious friend, ignoring the waves of ire radiating from the silver bot. "Our friendship is getting off on a rather good note, isn't it?"
Jazz's pugnacious reply was not for the faint of spark. Nevertheless, Prowl was suddenly and inexplicably cheered.