Chapter Text
“We would never have to do this again.”
Jazz looked to him, tilting his helm as he offered out his opposite arm. Prowl had just finished distributing a thin layer of matte finish over the other, working his way around the expanse of Jazz’s frame.
“Didn’t think sittin’ here and letting you spray me down was that bad.”
He’d received something of a huff in return, Prowl dropping to a knee before him as he began to work at the metal of his lower legs.
Lustrous, glossy paintjobs were always an added hazard, pixels of white reflecting across pale-colored armor, catching in security footage that Prowl got tired of wiping when looping the snippets. A once necessary reassurance, though it’d grown less dire the greater Jazz had gotten at dancing between blind spots. Looking decent on the job should not matter, if Jazz’s primary goal was to be in and out without so much as a bolt on his rear being seen.
Even so, he didn’t layer the coating, Jazz liked when his plating had a sheen just as much as the next mech — the quicker it was to dissolve after a night out, the less Prowl had to hear while he scrubbed himself clean in the next room over.
Jazz’s portion of their affairs was particularly hands-on, and he supposed he earned the right for his preferences to be considered. Dents and scrapes could always be buffed and prettied, but he could not reapply the finish where it rubbed away, not while he was traversing vents that had him more wriggling like a cyber-snake than crawling. It was imperative Jazz was careful, not to spare the visual attractiveness of his plating, but to preserve his finish until the end of a job.
When their post-mission debriefs had begun to include Prowl with a polish rag in-servo, running the soft fibers across Jazz’s imperfections with ever-increasing mindfulness, Prowl would claim he did not know. In truth, he had carefully catalogued the first instance, and the second, and several after. And only when it was expected, and not peculiarly requested, did Prowl ease his noting.
He was grateful for Jazz. He was useful, tolerable, and on occasion, a pleasant thing to simply have near. Yes, at his core, he functioned in ways Prowl could not fully comprehend — but it was not such a terrible thing, and he’d stress nothing to change.
Their dynamic was ideal, it was efficient.
And wholly, he preferred things as they were.
It was not often Prowl could list things that needed no correction, that were as perfect as life would permit. But he and Jazz were near enough that he would not dare tamper with how they stood.
Prowl had never held up well in the face of spontaneity. Of change at its core, truly.
The ability to consider, choose and act soon after, split-second decision making and everything adjacent was something Prowl knew Jazz excelled at— enough so that if the average mechanism were to claim his function, their rate of viable job-acceptance would drop by at least 62.333%, the margin too great for the solution to ever be anything but Jazz.
He allotted, at minimum, a megacycle of preparation for each of their hits and he claims them to be as close to perfection as any bot could muster in the given timeframe. Jazz’s unbidden adjustments, no matter how dismissible, were both predicted and accounted for too. He would find no pleasure in again learning the intricacies of another’s habits, especially if they were not Jazz.
Jazz was never a bot who relished in taking his time, not unless it was nearing the end of a decacycle and they were utilizing their chordly debrief over a cube of fuel (and maybe an assorted box of energon-sweets from a cafe near their home, one that Prowl had heard Jazz praise once in passing and has purchased consistently since.)
Prowl appreciated this, greatly. He was in, then out, and they distributed their earnings and went about their life as if Cybertron’s nights hadn’t bore witness to countless terminations at the hands of them both.
It was a nice thing they had going, as Jazz had so eloquently described one cycle, over a cup of fuel that was far more frivolous than either could reasonably justify consuming — which they hadn’t, because Jazz had claimed it for the experience and Prowl did not have the spark to turn down the sentiment. They had worked and done so diligently for opportunities just like this. So he supposed Jazz was more correct in buying them energon with a price tag that would send his processor spinning, than Prowl was to say they did not need such things.
Them, their productivity, their structure. They had their strengths and they eased the weight where the other lacked, and this time, Prowl could not quite pinpoint when they’d begun to associate beyond it all. Merging their living situations made the most sense, logically, when Prowl cross referenced expenses for renting and accommodations as an individual. He’d presented the idea and Jazz’s face had twisted into that too-familiar smile, and he’d made some sort of foolish exclamation about being his ‘roomie’.
Prowl permitted it, because in spite of the odd wording, he supposed they were roomies—
“You know that’s not what I meant,” and Jazz was quick to wave a dismissive servo.
“The risk, Jazz. I’ve run the calculations a hundred times before; I have extensive cataloguing of each and every job we’ve taken. Its likelihood of casualty, its rate of injury.”
“And, of success, yeah?” Jazz was quick to counter, and Prowl could feel him tense as he rested one servo on his thigh, beginning to spray varnish over the other. “You told me yourself, the other orn. Ever since that big flop in Petrex when I tried to put down a chief and hit the wrong line because my dearest bot in the chair made a lil’ oopsie, things are only going up.”
At that, Prowl could’ve snorted. That job had only proceeded terribly because, at the time, they were still by all accounts new, and Jazz refused to let him live down the improper anatomical guide of the mech’s frame type he’d forwarded. Deactivation for payment was not something a bot could perfect in one cycle. Could Prowl return and correct his plan of action for Jazz utilizing his current expertise, not only would their hit have been successful, but he may even offer Jazz a word of forward praise for his execution.
“Yes, Jazz. You are simply so amazing. But my point of contention is not your competence nor mine.” He fanned his servo to quicken the drying, shifting to the side as he began to distribute across Jazz’s next thigh. He spread his legs further, easing the way Prowl had to maneuver the can around each angle.
“Well I’ll be damned. What’s on your mind, then?”
He shifted on his peds and Prowl stood, optics racking the expanse of his frame, offering smaller spritzes in places he’d missed or where the finish had dripped and spread too thin for his liking.
“I finance our pooled earnings. I budget and assure we are rewarded accordingly, and I manage mostly all of our living expenses,” Jazz looked at him then, helm tilted in a way Prowl knew was encouragement to continue.
“…And, I believe we have gotten too comfortable doing what it is that we do.”
Jazz made a small noise, a low click of his tongue. When he moved to fold his arms over his chassis, Prowl was quick to grasp him. Gently, on account of the fact he’d just finished meticulously prepping his plating.
“…What? Took the better half of a decavorn for you to develop some kinda moral qualm with it? We’re killing bad mechs, Prowl. Bots don’t get hits like these over their helms unless they’re doing some real fragged stuff.”
Prowl’s wings gave a subtle, irritated flutter, settling higher than their neutral position.
“No, Jazz. I do not care remotely for the mecha we deal with, I deliberately choose those who are deserving. Do not fail to remember, if circumstances had not led us to this, neither you nor I would be deactivating them as our livelihood.”
Releasing his arm, Jazz settled for propping his servos onto his hips.
“So what’s with all this ‘we need to stop’ slag, really? We’re doing something and that something is good, Prowl. Real good. I might not crunch the numbers but I know you wouldn’t make me go out there if the risk wasn’t worth the reward. We beat the odds — We’re doing good, and we’re living better ‘cus of it.”
Raising a hand to his helm, Prowl dragged it down his faceplate.
“You are not listening, and you are certainly failing to understand.”
“Then help me. ‘Cus all I’m hearing is doubt and regret on the night of our biggest job yet, and I’m not feeling too confident right now.”
There was quiet, a rhythmic thumping of peds. Prowl had turned away and since begun to pace. Measured strides — 1, 2, 3, turn — as his doors remained, angled and rigid at his back. He circled Jazz’s words in his mind, picking apart every implication, lips parting and meeting as if he couldn’t yet articulate.
“There is simply no need to put yourself at risk. We have both overcome our previous… struggles, we are comfortable and I would claim you are happy with your current situation. Where is the logic behind pursuing.. any of this, any further?” He slowed, helm turning.
“We have no shortage of credits. There is hardly a need for us to seek employment at all and certainly not terminating mecha for payment. The risk no longer outweighs the reward, Jazz. You can seek your thrills elsewhere. Someplace proper, where your life is no longer in the servos of another mech.” In mine, Prowl would have continued. But who better to direct Jazz than him? If he’d begun to doubt the trust Jazz had afforded him from the start, there was no bot on Cybertron who he believed could rival his position beside him.
As Prowl stared, he could see the cables of Jazz’s neck flex, equally as wordless as he’d been. His visor’s brightness pulsed, dimmer then brighter then settling, as it always did when Jazz was truly considering.
“What am I gonna do if not any of this, Prowl? I’m doing something now, with you. And whatever happens, happens. You really wanna throw it all away?”
Prowl’s optics flickered, pointedly avoiding Jazz’s visor and his own reflected in the glass.
“We can settle.”
For all of his own distaste for abrupt and unsanctioned change, you could assume Jazz held it to the same regard, with how he’d complicated Prowl’s propositions.
“Are you not far more gratified claiming your place beside me, indulging in whatever confection I’ve brought home? I’ve seen you, Jazz. After every job, every statistical success. What is another zero beside our credits anymore?”
He moved to interlock his digits, an absent fidget as his thumb smoothed over the back of his own servo, his helm now lowered.
“The former? It could be every orn, every night cycle, at every rise of the sun. Is it not reasonable to take the good and proceed, and leave the rest behind?”
At Jazz’s silence, Prowl could not continue to lend his focus to the ground beneath him. His gaze drifted up to him. Their optics met, Prowl feeling strangely sick, something he could accredit to the nervousness twisting his tanks. The feeling was almost foreign, he did not get nervous, did not harbor any doubts that his processor's barest functions did not immediately pick apart and rationalize. He had utmost confidence in both his own capabilities and Jazz’s, and the worry that wormed his way into his chamber made him about ready to flee.
He braced a wince as Jazz’s words fell, preparing for the worst. It was what he did best — he’d debated every potential outcome, rehearsed with himself the exact glyphs. And still, no amount of devise could truly ready him for all the things that pertained to Jazz.
Because Jazz did not follow his every word. Jazz did not dedicate his every moment to acting in accordance with Prowl's internal models, plans and devise. Jazz was an ever changing variable, and as greatly as his tactical systems detested it, Prowl would prefer him no different.
“…Yeah,” he said, the offer low, softer than Prowl was used to.
“Yes?” Prowl repeated, a distinct lag to the word, as if he hadn’t yet processed what it meant.
“Yeah, Prowl. I think I might like somethin’ like that,”
Jazz raised a servo, rubbing at his neck-cables in an emotion Prowl could not yet pinpoint.
“So long as it’s us — me ‘n you.”
Prowl released a vent he hadn’t realized he withheld. He swallowed, giving a measured shutter of his optics.
“…Yes. Alright. Very well, then.”
His posture straightened, an awkward partly-hunched stature gone alongside the incline of his doorwings, now settled in a typical path straight-across. He knew he failed to express his true relief, the way his nerves did not quite dissipate, but twisted into something halfway pleasant at Jazz’s usage of ‘us.’
“We can discuss this further upon your return.” The change of topic was much needed, as Prowl feared he would begin to spew nonsense if Jazz continued to feed into his hopes of normalcy for their future.
“If there is any reason for doubt, no matter how small, you extract yourself and you go, correct?”
At the way he chuckled in response, Prowl could feel himself bristle. He took a step forward, not quite close enough to threaten but the movement itself caught Jazz’s attention, as intended.
“Do not fail to grasp the severity, Jazz. I am only assisting you further so as to assure the time we have spent in preparation does not go to waste. Your complaints regarding inactivity and boredom can be remedied elsewhere, or you will learn to bear with our job's absence, because normal mechanisms do not see the need in any of this.”
Another bout of laughter, this time half-muffled by his own hand.
“I’m hearing you, Prowler. Loud and clear. Turn tail and run if a couple bolts don’t match the layout you give me.”
Prowl knew his tone very well.
Prowl wanted to reach forward and strangle the mech himself, his careful polishing be damned.
Jazz, insistently and stubbornly, had his sights set on never abandoning a task — no matter the detriment to himself. Prowl could offer every probability, existing list of alternative routes and plans and if Jazz felt something could work, he’d proceed.
He was mostly right, always returning home after several scares and enough stress on Prowl’s spark he's impressed it hadn’t failed. But it was for reasons like these, he felt it was time for them to settle.
It was never meant to be long-term, truly. Any of this.
Jazz’s initial proposition was made with a sole intent to assist him — forward, an unhidden purpose. It was meant to be a one-off thing, payment aiding them just long enough to find far less crude means to manage.
One became another, and Prowl found he far preferred what they were doing now, as opposed to pleading against a distasteful mark in his public files during each and every interview. Humiliation, clear and violent — Prowl had discovered with haste, the difficulty in being considered with records that resembled his own.
Jazz treated him like he understood and though he’d never pried for details on Jazz’s time prior to their first engagement, Prowl found him oddly trustworthy. He had never, and Prowl could claim so with utmost confidence, given him reason to doubt. He tried his best to offer him the same.
“Assure me you’ll follow my instruction, Jazz. Strictly, this time. Do not deviate from the course I've provided.”
“Prowl—”
“No, Jazz. Listen. I have adjusted to your methods for metacycles, I have planned meticulously around your catalogued habit and tendency. I promise you, things will go no smoother than if you trust my word and act accordingly.”
Jazz released a vent, heavy as he inclined his helm.
“Mhmm… you’ve got it. I’ll keep my touch out of this one.”
As Prowl moved to thank him, Jazz’s derma parted once more. Of course, it would never be so simple.
“But you owe me, alright? I’m gonna come back, and we’re gonna plan a cycle to go into the city — and you’re gonna buy yourself something nice, yeah? You’re not gonna pick apart the price or it’s usefulness or that thing you do where you insist you’re gonna ‘indulge another time.’”
“…Jazz.”
“You’ve got my word, Prowl. Do I have yours?”
Prowl had looked elsewhere, an attempt to hide the way the corner of his mouth raised, slight but unmistakable.
“I suppose I’ll mark a date in our calendar, then.”
— — —
Naive.
Prowl was naive, moronic and dense.
Irrevocably, undoubtedly stupid.
Of course, things had been going far too well, and the misfortune life always seemed to yield was far overdue. He had failed to recognize, between thoughts of running someplace far, far away from pseudonymous and prying enforcers, of weight settled heavy over Jazz’s shoulders as the mecha before him stilled.
He could not shrug off this blame, not when he held utmost fault.
Part of himself still refused Jazz’s words, optics flickering between the layout of the senator’s dwelling and the live feed in the corner of his HUD, displaying Jazz’s current predicament. Reducing the former’s opacity and layering it over the transmission, the conclusion was absolute.
“This ain’t the same house, Enigma.”
He wanted to bite something snarky, because yes, that much was clear. But what they needed now was not anger nor irritation, the wave of dread that came with realizing he was wrong — severely so, lips parting with a single demand. Jazz had been far too engaged, by the time realization hit.
They needed to build structure where Prowl’s every strategic, mulled proposal had crumbled, where he knew Jazz’s ploys would gain him little footing.
“Retreat.”
“Leave.”
“Run.”
When Jazz had proceeded further, peds catching where they could as he traversed an outer wall, his intentions were clear. A window, glowing gentle from the active lighting within.
“Don’t be stupid.”
“Real rich coming from you, right now.”
His servo tightened, optics cycling in rapid consideration.
“Yes, Meister, I am beyond a fool, but that does not mean you should follow. None of the data I was provided is correct. This was no job.”
“It’s a setup.” Jazz finished, capture stabilizing as he ceased his scaling.
“I did not intend to jeopardize you.”
“Never said that.” There was a dim thud as Jazz swung his frame, landing as soundlessly as he could muster on an empty balcony. He’d ducked beneath the railing, a flash of light painting the space he once stood, a distant ‘did you hear that?’ making Prowl’s spark stutter.
“Security’s tight. Don’t think I could go back the way I came even if I tried.”
Prowl squinted, scrutinizing computation taking vague priority over Jazz’s voice in his audials. His wings were low, dipped at his back and held there in a show of displeasure, though no mech was present to bear witness.
He’d sprawled Jazz’s clearest captures on the holo-screens before him, adjusting angles and order. He pieced together what he could of the building’s true layout, though Jazz had hardly managed several few before coming to the ultimate, disheartening conclusion of their setup.
“Under the assumption this building’s construction followed typical architectural safety procedures, there is legal requirement for at least two hazard prevention exits within roughly 300 feet of yourself. What do you see, Meister? If not in front, look up.”
Jazz’s search was fruitless, nothing but smoothed ledges and decorative engraving catching his sights. Prowl stilled as Jazz’s feed raised, scanning the remainder of the wall that towered above him.
“You want me to go in one and climb out another?”
Prowl, too, searched.
“Do you see it?”
Jazz gave a low, affirmative hum, crouched low as he zeroed in on a dismissible latch that could not be up to visual code, considering how he had to squint to find it, too.
It had been uncomfortably long, since Prowl was the one at a disadvantage. And consequently, Jazz was far, far worse off. His failsafe of a mech did not have access to cameras nor security systems, the access he’d prodded offered him nothing but immediate deadpan rejection. Prowl could not disable, could not prevent, could not ease the dangers of hands-on obligation while he sat at a terminal several thousand kliks away.
His upper row of dentae grazed his lower lip.
“It should not sound an alarm, not audibly. I need you to promise not to cut connection to this communications line, Meister. Allow me to guide you. Fully, this once.”
“Yeah, yeah. We’ve talked about that one already. I’m gonna thug your nagging and you’re gonna go into the city with me. Ain't that the agreement?”
Prowl could feel a noise of disbelief raise in his vocalizer, halfway between a laugh and a scoff.
“Indeed. Now focus, I believe we both would prefer this job ends as successful as is plausible— what’s that thing you say?”
“..Go out with a bang?”
“Affirmitive. That is precisely what you are not meant to do here.”
— — —
Prowl’s forward ped clashed against the back of the other in a stumble, flailing only for a moment to catch himself on the frame of the exit as he stabilized his footing, releasing a low curse. The chatter of the bar behind him faded quickly, the most notable sound in his audials becoming the hum of a large neon sign just above him, LEDs painting his simply-colored frame deep shades of blue to pink.
His unit trailed him with an impressive lack of grace, mocking one another’s instability as if any held a servo above the rest. They laughed, using one another as a crutch, a moving tangle of dependent limbs and fluttering wings.
They’d caught up easily enough, Prowl situated only a few steps forward, watching them struggle with the faintest hint of amusement. Barricade shrugged the two shorter bots off as they neared, clasping a hand to Prowl’s shoulder and transferring most of his weight, leaning lazily against him.
“C’moooon, Prowl. Your night, isn’t it? Looked so miserable doing nothing in there, these two idiots thought you were about to turn on your sirens and clear the place out. Matter of fact, Captain, you even finish the drink Smokey got for you?”
Quirking an optic ridge, Prowl guided Barricade back to the others, not too fond of being used as a crutch as he allowed him to retake his place between them.
“Yes, Barricade, I did. It was pleasant if not a little acidic. You three made quick work of every other beverage, so I’d not worry yourselves.” His words were dismissive, firm and conclusive. The trio hushed, exchanging glances, a sort of hurt concern marring Bluestreak’s faceplate as he parted his lips with a protest.
“…Tonight was not terrible.” Prowl clarified, allowing his doorwings to drift from neutral to relaxed. It was enough to bring their smiles back, chatter restarting as Prowl took position at the head of the group and began to lead.
He was by no means inebriated, the high-grade Smokescreen had purchased and slid towards him leaving nothing but a dull, halfway pleasant buzz in his systems. They ran slower, just barely, a difference hardly noticeable when his every processing function was dialed up to a constant, near one-hundred. Despite this night out being for him and his most recent promotion (as they’d claimed when their lieutenant had asked why they all needed the night-cycle off), he knew the responsibility of getting every mech home was something he would be ultimately issued.
Even so, he held little problem with such a conclusion.
He would rather see himself terminated than allow any of his unit’s hooligans to witness him truly drunk.
Their attempts were humoured, if not a bit redundant, each having purchased and offered him upwards of two drinks, and upon his insistence on letting them gather in an untouched pile, they’d ended up indulging themselves. Prowl had sipped on the first, courtesy of Smokescreen, and it had remained his only throughout the night.
Once they’d neared a corner Prowl slowed, stopping just short of the wide stretch of road splitting either sidewalk. As they moved to cross, glancing left then right to assure they were safe, he’d heard an odd, distant rumbling — a dull whining. He blinked slowly, reaching to rub at an optic, giving a sharp shake of his helm to clear the fog the night had brought. Audial angled north-west, he’d leaned his frame toward the noise.
Confusion took hold, first. The night had been uneventful by all means, and this sector of the city had reports that peaked in ‘littering’ severity. The street’s crackle, distant driving — no, too violent.
Speeding.
His servo dropped, optics recalibrating as he gave squinted focus down the road.
He was left reeling as a mech sped past him, tires screaming as they drifted a corner and sent his unit stumbling back in surprise, falling one by one until they wound up a stunned pile on the ground. He was given no chance of reprise, tailed by two more enforcers with their sirens blaring, piercing and bright.
He stared dumbly, for a moment. Down the street, where faint tire marks hugged the street corner’s right curve, the scent of burning rubber coating his olfactory sensor.
Swallowing heavy with a newfound gratitude, he was fortunate enough not to be brought down with them. His first priority, now, was to assure they were well (as Barricade currently laid pinned under two other frames, not at all protesting but simply sprawled beneath with a look of mild annoyance).
“Are you three alright?” He’d asked, beginning to pull footage from the chase.
Though not the highest in playback-quality (as he lacked the foresight to implement greater frame rate in his optic’s automatic captures), it was feasible. He ran through each frame until he could manage the clearest shot of the perpetrator — if they were a previous offender, his databases would have little trouble identifying what mech the vehicle mode belonged to.
Each was blurred by movement, their speed was exceptional (especially for a civilian zone, which was worth a decent fine in of itself), and their control seemed to be worthy of similar regard. Fleeing enforcement, reckless endangerment. Though Prowl was off-duty and truthfully out of his station’s sector, he’d begun formulating a report nonetheless. He could forward it to this precinct’s chief himself and save them the trouble.
A match was pinged with haste — Prowl expected as much. Not only did he employ his own extensive systemization of repeat criminals and mecha on probation, but if this was a repeated issue in this portion of the city, their mugshots would be front and center.
As he searched the criminal indexing his station provided, he was quick to utilize his own when the verdict did not reveal itself. Even then, it failed to ping from his enforcer adjacent databases.
Their match lit an alert from files tucked far, untouched in his processor’s personal subcategories, exact and unmistakable despite the distortion of its movement, the shaky blur marring the quality of the image.
The designation read out as Jazz, an alternate entry beneath reading ‘Meister’, [87.88% match], branched from his enforcer’s categorization, a combination of both personal and professional cataloguing.
Yes, Jazz was Meister and Meister was Jazz, it was something Prowl knew far too well — but the designation had stood as nothing more than a title without a faceplate since long before Prowl had hung up his own pseudonym.
His memory banks contained far too many captures of Jazz — of every angle imaginable, truly. He could pick him out of a lineup with his optics shuttered and his audials blocked.
This was, statistically, no mistake.
As he reached down to assist his unit, clumsily untangling themselves and murmuring something likely-nonsensical about pursuing the criminal even in their drunken states, Prowl could not bring himself to chastise.
He’d run the calculations, slower. Analyzed as delicately as he could manage with no outside equipment, and time and time again, with each careful consideration, the discovery of ‘Meister’ beside ‘Jazz’ rose in percentage.
He knew Meister was Jazz, though Prowl of Iacon’s enforcers did not know that, Enigma did.
And now, he knew the mech currently joyriding through a city too-far from where he’d said his goodbyes was also, unmistakably, Jazz.
“Prowl? Hey, you listening?” Smokescreen called out, pushing off the floor to first stand, Barricade following, then Blue.
He turned, optics drifting between the three, now standing but still pressed together.
“You okay? We were gonna say, should probably tap into the local stations or something. We can help out, least he deserves after that slagger almost turned us into a stack of energon pancakes…” Bluestreak offered.
“Downright ridiculous. We oughta do something about it — duty and whatnot.” Smokescreen agreed, nodding his helm alongside Barricade, as if the three had already come to a mutual conclusion.
Prowl’s servo rose to his audial, deliberately slow, wordless. There was a pause, a moment of silence, before he’d activated his communications link.
“In active pursuit, Captain Prowl of the 4th Iaconian enforcer precinct.”
He’d sprung forward, peds meeting the road as gears churned and seams lifted, engine giving a harsh, unmistakable rumble before his transformation sequence had fully run its course.
The ground kicked up debris behind him as his tires spun, burning another set of marks into the road while his unit could do little else beyond stare.
There was another stretch of quiet, nothing but a soft hum of activity from the bar a few strides away — they’d hardly made it far.
“…Who’s place are we crashing at?”
“Well, I think we just lost Prowl.”