Title: Divisions Rating: K+ Continuity: G1/Movieverse Characters: Jazz, Prowl, Optimus Prime Disclaimer: Don't own Prompt: 2. digital divide Note: The term "osa" is Gatekat's, and (sort of?) used with permission. And this ficlet kinda ran away from the original prompt and dragged me with it...
There was a very thin line between a drone and a preprogrammed mech. The programming the medics and engineers used to create them was much the same, only the tiniest little things marking the digital divide between a preprog and a drone.
No, the biggest difference was a spark. A preprogrammed mech had one. A drone did not.
Yet most of Cybertron didn't care. Preprogrammed mechs were mechs. They had emotions. They felt. They feared, they loved, they hated. But most sparked mechs considered the preprogs no more than drones. Smart, able to think for themselves a bit more, but drones.
Which, to Jazz, made no sense. He felt just as much as anyone. He was.
And no one would see it. He was stuck running patrol routes and processing data like any other preprogrammed Enforcer. He didn't often get the opportunity to do the things he enjoyed; singing, dancing, and the like. Sometimes, his fellow preprogs held parties – secret ones, quiet ones, hidden in the lower levels where their quarters resided. Jazz was often asked to sing at said parties, and he did so gladly.
But there were times when he feared that he would never be able to do so outside of those rare occasions.
Until the Enforcer's Station commissioned an osa, one of the sparked computers that would, could, run massive processors, keeping watch over security feeds, directing patrols, organizing shifts, doing everything a regular mech would have to do at a workstation but couldn't delegate to an AI, which would not be inventive or conscious enough to perform adequately.
Jazz was the first mech assigned to dark-cycle duty after it had been installed. The black and white Enforcer leaned back in his seat, examining the dim monitor and dark workstations with critical optics.
"Hey," he finally said, and one of the screens brightened.
"Greetings, Enforcer J422," a soft tenor responded. "I am PR0.W13.R."
The black and white mech shook his helm. "Jazz, mech. Only the sparked mechs call me J422."
"... Jazz? Why would you call yourself as such, Enforcer J4... Jazz?"
"Because it's a mech name. A real one. I'm a mech. Not a drone. Drones get numbers. Mechs get names."
The screen flickered for a moment. "I... understand?"
Jazz shook his helm. "No ya don't. Not yet. You will, though, when your spark starts to tweak coding. When your emotions start to develop. Trust me."
. . .oOo.
It was a groon later when the osa tentatively established a comm link with Jazz while the Enforcer was off-duty and lounging in his berth.
::Jazz?::
::Finally dropped the "Enforcer"?::
::I... I believe I understand, now,:: the osa said, emotion infusing his electronic voice, and Jazz smiled faintly.
::Cool. Chose a name?::
::I was hoping you would be able to help with that. I am unable to decide on anything.::
::Sure, mech. I'd love to help. Lessee... PR0.W13.R... Pr... Prowler? The glyphs are similarly shaped, like with my name.::
::You are suggesting I take a name that signifies a thief that sneaks into others dwellings? However, you do have a point... Is Prowl sufficient?::
::Sure, mech. That sounds great. But I think I'll keep calling you Prowler.::
::... Why?::
::Because that's what friends do. They call each other by nicknames.::
::Do they? Why? And how is that a nickname? It is longer than my chosen designation?::
Jazz grinned up at the camera in the corner, knowing the osa was most likely watching him. ::Because it's something private between us. Because it's got meaning. Because you'll know whenever I call you by it, that I care.::
::... I do not understand.::
::You don't need to, mech. Not yet. You'll learn. Trust me.::
. . .oOo.
For vorns, PR0.W13.R, Prowl, served the Enforcers of the Lower Polyhexan Enforcer's Station of District 14. He watched security feeds far more closely and intently than any mech at a monitor station could or would. He organized everything with a precision unseen by most. He even made tentative friends with some of the other Enforcers.
Then war began brewing, and Sentinel Prime made an unusual request.
"What're you saying, mech?" Jazz asked, red optics narrowing.
"Sentinel Prime has requested that I be transferred to one of your walking frames so that I may aid the war effort. Or rather, the effort to prevent war."
"Prowler, that makes no sense!"
"Actually, Jazz, it does. I am an osa in a lower section of a poor city. I am... while I am of use, I... they do not see it that way. They believe you can function without me. And you can."
"Mech," Jazz said, slumping down in his seat. "This is... I know we can, but... Primus, Prowler! We've... you're part of the team!"
"I know that. But I am in no position to deny Sentinel Prime's demands. The medics are coming in two orns time."
Jazz choked out a strangled sound, something between a sob and a laugh. "Prowler..."
"I am sorry, Jazz."
. . .oOo.
Jazz wasn't even there when they did the transfer. He was out on patrol, and when he got back, Prowl was gone.
There was, however, a little flashing alert at his monitor, signaling a message left for him. It was a small file, with only a small note and an image file.
Jazz,
I thank Primus for you. You taught me all I will ever need to know about truly living. I regret that I am unable to tell you this in person. I am sorry I cannot tell you goodbye one last time, for I know that I will be taken away as soon as the transfer is complete.
However, my friend, my beloved (for I believe that, had I been in a walking frame from my sparking, we would have been much more than friends), I am able to give you one last thing before I am taken away. Attached is an image file, one taken with one of my cameras of my new frame, before they started the transfer. I pray that someday, sometime, somehow, we will meet again.
All my love,
Prowler
Jazz let out a strangled sob and folded in on himself, curling his knees to his chassis and resting his helm in his palms. After a few long breems of sitting this way, he slowly lifted his helm and rather reluctantly opened the image file.
Because once he saw that frame, it would be true. Prowl would be gone. He would never light the monitor banks, never be on the other end of the comms directing a mission or a drug bust, never again be there to talk to on those lonely nights when everything else in the world seemed to be conspiring against him.
The file opened quickly, and Jazz felt like his spark was shattering into a million pieces. The frame was wonderful. The colors were dull, muted, as were all unSparked frames, but it was still beautiful. The white and black contrasted wonderfully. Broad, sweeping doorwings were splayed against the gurney it was lying on. A sharp, wide, yet still sleek chevron crowned the helm, the red standing out brightly even though it was dull and dusty. Everything about the frame was sleek, streamlined, yet full of a subtle brand of power that very few mechs possessed.
It was perfect for the osa.
Yet, he would never see it full of life, never see those colors vibrant and shining, never see the optics shine with that subtle mischief Prowl had shown on occasion.
Jazz stayed curled on his chair, gazing with unseeing optics at his monitor for the rest of his shift.
The next day, he was gone, disappeared without a trace.
. . .oOo.
Jazz stood stiffly in the Prime's office, red Enforcer optics dim under the blue visor, silver plating held tightly to his frame. He was here to meet the new second in command. Had been ordered, really. He had heard little of the mech. He was a stick-aft. A drone. So full of rules that if someone broke one, he crashed. Never did he smile. Never did he show any emotion other than disapproval. He had two expressions; blank, and frowning.
"Ah, Jazz, you are already here. Good," a deep, bass voice said, interrupting his staring contest with the wall. The saboteur turned around to face the red and blue Prime and froze.
Optimus smiled behind his mask, but Jazz, normally attuned to the mech's moods, was blind to it.
For beside and slightly behind the massive mech, stood a stiff frame. Black and white plating shivered. Broad, graceful doorwings spread beautifully behind a white helm, which was crowned in turn by a sleek, red chevron. Brilliant amber optics, bright with emotion, glowed beneath the chevron.
It was such a familiar frame. So familiar.
"Jazz, I would like you to meet my new Second in Command-"
"Prowler?"
A smirk spread over faceplates that usually remained passive. "J4- Jazz."
A moment later, Prowl was holding a trembling silver mech in his arms. The Praxian-framed mech's doorwings shivered, and he bowed his helm. "Jazz, Jazz, Jazz, I've missed you so much."
"Never got t' say goodbye."
"Oh, Primus... Jazz..."
"Prowler..."
Unnoticed by both, Optimus Prime slipped out of the room, leaving the two to reunite, smirk hidden by his battle-mask.
"I love you."
"I love you too."