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Odd, Prowl thought, spotting a familiar flash of blue on black and white across the small square. This is pretty far outside his usual stomping grounds.
Jazz shouldn’t have any reason to be in the industrial zone. Law-abiding citizen he was not, as his ever-growing rap sheet could attest, but he was a far cry from the kind of criminal that had business down here. Petty thieves and public nuisances survived by staying away from the big-timers who ran things from the shadows beneath the city, and Jazz’s crimes — those that weren’t the result of willful (and occasionally legitimate) ignorance of the law — were all about staying alive.
Prowl was tempted to go over and try to talk to him. Not that he was worried or anything; Jazz was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, and wouldn’t appreciate a cop interfering with… whatever he was up to. And, strange though it was, Prowl had no grounds for stopping him. What he did have was a job to do. A lead had materialized that might finally enable them to link the notorious gangster Fallout with a recent string of kidnappings, and he needed to check it out.
Putting the odd coincidence out of his processor, Prowl drove on, leaving Jazz behind.
It wasn’t an easy task, locating one particular abandoned building in the sea of worn, dilapidated structures that made up this part of the city, but Prowl was determined. Being careful to avoid detection, he wound his way through the maze of dark alleys and narrow passages until he found the one he was looking for. There. If their sources were right, what he was looking for was on the fifth floor.
Choosing the fire escape over the front door, Prowl began to climb. He was one floor away from his goal when—
“Psst! Stop! Don’t move.”
The unexpected but familiarly-accented whisper came from behind the boarded-up window of the adjacent building. Jazz? He’d forgotten all about seeing him earlier! Prowl froze where he was on the rickety stairs, helm still facing forward. “Or what?” he whispered back calmly, trying not to let his surprise show.
“Or you’re a dead mech,” came the near-silent reply. There was a soft scraping sound as one of the boards over the window was pulled away to reveal a sliver of soft blue light. “They got snipers in there just itchin’ to pick off anyone dumb enough to try sneakin’ in. What’re you doin’ here, Prowl?”
“My job,” Prowl hissed quietly. This was beyond coincidence. Jazz had to have followed him. But why? Please don’t tell me you’re working for Fallout. You’re a pain in the aft, but you’re better than that! “What are you doing here?”
“Now ain’t the time or place for chitchat.” Jazz’s visor disappeared behind the board again. Prowl was about to demand he come back when a previously invisible seam suddenly appeared in the otherwise solid-looking wall, revealing a secret door. “Come on.”
Prowl hesitated for a second, reluctant to abandon his mission when he was so close, but whether Jazz was telling the truth or not, he could hardly continue with the footpad at his back. Decided, Prowl slipped around the wall and into the other building, coming face to face with Jazz in the unlit gloom. “Wha—mph!”
“Shh.” Jazz drew the hand he had slapped over Prowl’s mouth back so a single finger rested against his lips, warning him not to ask any more questions before stepping away entirely, pulling the door shut (and very nearly clipping the edge of Prowl’s doorwing in the process) behind him. Then he motioned for Prowl to follow him.
Prowl pointedly didn’t budge; instead, he folded his arms under his bumper and stood silent and still, waiting. After the number of times he’d arrested him, Prowl knew Jazz better than anyone else on the force. For all his persistent and annoying misdemeanors, he was generally a friendly, decent mech. Odds were he really was trying to help right now — but Prowl couldn’t just follow him blindly. Not without a little more information than that.
Oh, for the love of Primus! Prowl read the words on Jazz’s lips as the smaller mech stomped (silently) back over to him. “You wanna die here, or get movin’ so we can talk somewhere else?!”
He’d missed it before in his surprise, but now, standing this close, Prowl could feel fear in Jazz’s tightly coiled EM field. It lay over his armor like a sticky film, leaving cold, clinging traces behind where Jazz tugged urgently on his elbow. “Please. Trust me.”
Jazz’s fear… it wasn’t for himself. Jazz was worried about Prowl. No one ever worried about him. Caught completely off-guard, Prowl didn’t fight as Jazz started towing him away from the wall to the edge of the stairs. Then he realized what was happening and put his foot down, pulling them both up short.
“Jazz!” He yanked his arm free. “Perhaps you mean well, but you are interfering with a police investigashhn!”
“Shut! UP!”
A hand clamped down over his mouth again, then Jazz suddenly and without any warning threw his weight against Prowl and knocked them both head-first into the stairwell. Gunfire filled the air less than a second later. Prowl’s hand went for his blaster as plasma bolts burned through the air to gouge holes in the walls, floor, and exposed beams in the ceiling, but he couldn’t reach it. His frame tangled up with Jazz’s, and together the two of them bounced and rolled down the rusty stairs, acquiring a collection of dings and scratches before landing heavily at the bottom, one on top of the other.
“Oww,” Prowl heard Jazz whine softly somewhere in the dark above him, barely audible over the continuing barrage upstairs.
“Shut up,” he echoed Jazz’s words as his tactical systems began suggesting possible courses of action. Not knowing the layout of either building beyond which floor they were on crippled his calculations somewhat, but he could at least estimate how many guns were out against them. “Three mechs in the building across from us just opened fire. Do you know how many more there might be?”
“Which do you want me to do, shut up or answer you?” Jazz snickered, then winced as he stood at the damage he’d sustained. He looked more dirtied than hurt, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t in pain. Prowl’s own diagnostics were pinging him with reports of only minimal injuries, but getting up was distinctly unpleasant for him as well. “Can’t exactly do both.”
“Can,” Prowl corrected with a short-range data burst with a restricted comm channel. Not his work one, since Jazz wasn’t authorized to have it, but an encrypted private frequency. “They shouldn’t be able to pick this up as long as we stay close, and even if they do, they won’t be able to understand it easily.”
“Gotcha,” Jazz replied, immediately making the switch to talking over comms. “So, here’s the rundown: you shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t be here, we need to get outta here yesterday, and we got a bunch of bad guys after us tryin’ to keep us from doin’ just that.”
“With guns, yes, I’m aware,” Prowl shot back drily. They edged carefully away from the foot of the stairs, getting out of the path of additional falling debris and possible line-of-sight from above. “I take it you don’t actually know how many of them there are then?”
“Nope. You said three, and if it’s the crew I think it is there’ll be seven total, but I ain’t sure without seein’ their faces and I figure that’s somethin’ we’d rather avoid.”
“Agreed.” It would actually be better for Prowl if he was able to ID or even photograph the shooters, but not getting shot — and keeping an unplanned (probably innocent) civilian bystander from getting shot — took priority. “Do you know any secret ways out of this building? They’ll be over here any minute to be sure of our frames, if they aren’t at the door already.”
The blaster fire covering the shuffling of their footsteps cut off abruptly right as Prowl finished his sentence. He and Jazz both stopped moving, not wanting to give away their position. In the sudden quiet, Prowl could hear three sets of footsteps nearby: one outside on the fire escape, and two somewhere below them.
Jazz was listening too, visor darkening as he cocked his helm to listen. “Got two outside’n four below,” he reported. Prowl knew the Poly had the better hearing (and better darkvision) of the two of them, so he fed Jazz’s numbers into his simulator rather than his own.
“Positions?”
“Well, I can’t give you exact coordinates or anything.” Jazz brushed his fingers against Prowl’s arm, indicating which direction they should move. “The ones on the fire escape’re lookin’ for the door you came in through one floor up, but it don’t open from that side so they’re stuck until their buddies finish screwin’ around on the stairs and get up there to let ‘em in.”
Imprecise, perhaps, but descriptive enough for Prowl fill in some of the blanks in his mental map. “And your secret exit?” Jazz hadn’t denied having one, so Prowl assumed that was where they were headed. Either that, or Jazz was planning for them to hide while the mechs downstairs came up so they could slip out behind them.
“Second floor, northeast corner.”
Hide-and-wait it was.
Only three mechs passed them on their way up to the fourth floor, but Jazz said he still heard another downstairs guarding the door. “He’s on the first floor though, so as long as we’re reeeeeal quiet he won’t be a problem.”
“What about the seventh mech?”
“What seventh?”
“The last member of the crew.” Prowl gingerly stepped over a sagging section of the floor and started down the stairs after Jazz. “You said you thought there would be seven of them in total.”
“Aww, I didn’t say I knew for sure! Maybe there’s only six!”
“And maybe there are sixteen.” Prowl internalized a frustrated sigh, forcing himself to concentrate on not making noise on the uneven steps.
“And maybe,” Jazz held up a hand for Prowl to stop while he checked that they were clear, “it doesn’t matter, because none of them know about the secret exit! So let’s just get there and get gone before they get wise.”
There was really no point in arguing that, so Prowl didn’t. He simply followed Jazz down the hall, marvelling at the mech’s ability to move without making a single sound. Prowl could move quietly, yes, but Jazz? Jazz was silent.
No wonder he’s such a good thief… Prowl shook his helm. Now was not, as Jazz had said, the time or the place for distracting thoughts.
They made it successfully to the northeast corner of the building, where Jazz produced another magical door out of solid metal. “After you,” he said, bracing the opening for Prowl.
“How is it you know about these and they don’t?” Prowl stepped out onto a platform in the narrow space sandwiched between buildings. Someone had, at some point, rigged up a makeshift scaffold even more rickety than the fire escape on the opposite side of the building as a means of reaching the alley below.
“Not — unff! — telling! A magician never reveals his secrets! Plus, you’d probably arrest me.” Jazz hopped out onto the scaffolding and braced himself to yank the wall closed behind them. “Can you see to climb down?”
“Yes.” Prowl paused, constructing a virtual model of the space in his processor to plan out his steps, then tucked down his doorwings and jumped. In a series of perfectly calculated moves, he leapt from one beam to the next, pivoting to avoid banging any protruding bits of kibble into anything. When he reached the ground (without a single misstep), he turned and looked up to wait for Jazz.
“Daaaang! You got some nice moves, mech!” Prowl got the distinct impression Jazz was tempted to try outdoing him, but chose to take a direct route down with no embellishments. “I knew you were fast on the street, but I didn’t know you were so light on your feet!”
“Remember it next time you try to evade me,” Prowl said teasingly. “Speaking of which, you’re evading my question.”
“No, I answered your question — by saying I ain’t answerin’ it. I’m not about to incriminate myself just to satisfy your curiosity.” Jazz joined Prowl and together they peered out into the alley, only to jerk back abruptly in tandem. “Scrap. There’s number seven.”
“Indeed.” Prowl ran through a mental checklist. The mech pacing at the end of the alley (who luckily hadn’t seen them) was the only enemy currently outside. The others were still inside: one on the first floor, the others on the fourth, all on the other side of the building. “We should rush him now, while the others are occupied. This place won’t be safe for long.”
“No, it won’t,” Jazz agreed. “But rushin’ him’ll let the others know to give chase.” A thoughtful ripple ran through his EM field. “I miiiiight be able to distract him and give you a chance to skedaddle. You just gotta promise not to arrest me for it later. How ‘bout it?”
“I won’t put you in danger.”
“I won’t be in danger if we split up. None of ‘em saw my face, just yours.” Jazz gave himself a critical once-over, then nodded. “Ain’t too banged up to pull this off. Well?”
“Well what?” Prowl had a sneaking suspicion he knew what sort of distraction Jazz meant to provide, and it didn’t make him happy. Prostitution was illegal, and Prowl was a cop. He couldn’t very well ask Jazz to do something like that on his behalf even if he’d wanted to, and he very much didn’t. Jazz shouldn’t have to make that kind of sacrifice for him.
Jazz grinned, almost as though he’d read Prowl’s thoughts. “Your concern is touching, but unnecessary. I’m an entertainer, Prowl. I like makin’ an audience happy — even if it’s just an audience of one.” His grin went from mischievous to salacious. “Don’t worry, my firewalls’re all up to date. Ain’t gonna catch anything crossin’ cables with the mech, assumin’ he even goes for it. You should still have a window to escape though, even if he doesn’t want to plug in. Flirtin’ takes time no matter what the outcome.”
“Jazz…” Prowl couldn’t believe Jazz was doing any of this. By rights he shouldn’t even be here. He should be in the market district, busking (illegally, since he still didn’t have that permit) on a corner to entertain the shoppers and earn a few shanix. Not saving Prowl, the cop he cursed out nine times out of every ten he saw him, from walking into a trap and being riddled with holes. “…why?”
Jazz shrugged. “Just cuz I don’t much like cops don’t mean y’ain’t a decent mech, and I don’t like leavin’ decent mechs t’die at the hands of scum like them.” He gave Prowl a wry smile. “Guess I was just in the right place at the right time.”
Before Prowl could say anything else, Jazz leapt back up into the scaffolding and disappeared. Approaching from another direction was a good tactic, and Prowl silently applauded him for it. Jazz was clever, skilled, intuitive. It frustrated Prowl that he’d never been able to convince him to put those talents to better use, but he’d given up lecturing him about the error of his ways centuries ago. What was the point, when no amount of fines, community service, or even short stints in jail, had any impact on Jazz’s degenerate behavior? He was who he was. He wasn’t going to change, any more than Prowl was.
Though Prowl had to admit, in light of recent events, that their situation was capable of changing. The more he got to know Jazz the mech, the more difficulty he had viewing him as the criminal his actions classified him. Sympathy for the devil, he thought, watching Jazz reappear and easily catch the seventh thug’s attention. He drew him away from Prowl’s hiding place effortlessly, allowing Prowl to dart across the street into an unguarded alley where he could make his way home safely.
Prowl knew the gratitude he was feeling was problematic, but that didn’t make it go away. Jazz had, very literally, just saved his life. Because it was the right thing to do.
He couldn’t just forget that.
***
“Hey Prowl! Wanna take care of this one for me? Please?”
Prowl looked up from his desk and spotted Streetwise waving at him across the bullpen. “Depends what ‘this one’ is,” he answered as he stood, “and why you can’t take care of it yourself.”
“Oh, it’s not that I can’t,” Streetwise replied with a laugh, which Prowl understood as soon as he got close enough to see who the other officer had in cuffs. “But you two are such good pals, I thought you’d want to be the one to book him.”
With a sigh, Prowl accepted the datapad and key for the bright yellow tire clamps on Jazz’s wheels and Streetwise took off, leaving the two of them alone. Prowl glanced down at the datapad, then over the clamps before meeting Jazz’s visor. “Speeding again?”
“Limit wasn’t posted.” The garish inhibitors bobbed as Jazz shrugged his shoulders. “Can’t say I was speeding if there’s no speed limit.”
“Mmhmm.” Prowl didn’t doubt for a second that he would find the street signs either missing or vandalized along the road where Jazz had been clocked going over the limit if he investigated. They’d been through this exact scenario in the past nearly a dozen times, though no one had ever gone so far as to clamp all four of Jazz’s tires before. “You must have really annoyed Streetwise.”
“Maaaaaybe,” Jazz drawled, not admitting (but also not really hiding) anything. “He kinda took exception to me tellin’ him my insurance was expired and my home address was under a bridge when he pulled me over.”
Prowl resisted the urge to roll his optics. “Perhaps it wasn’t what you said, but how you said it.” Jazz never had valid insurance, though Prowl hoped the bit about his address was just part of his usual sass. Vagrancy was something Jazz hadn’t been busted for in a while, and Prowl didn’t like the idea of him being homeless. “He read you the charges, correct?”
“Mech, if I don’t know my rights by now…” He trailed off with another shrug, the sarcastic smile on his face softening as he looked at Prowl. “So. Here we are.”
The almost wistful tone of his voice confused Prowl for a moment, but then he made the connection. This was the first time Jazz had seen him since leaving him in an alley in gang territory with a target painted on the back of his helm. “Here we are,” he agreed, dipping his doorwings in acknowledgement. “I never said thank you.”
“Didn’t do it for thanks. Or favors, for that matter.”
“I know you didn’t.” That didn’t change that Prowl wanted to do him a favor though — or the fact that he couldn’t. He’d suspected he was going to have trouble being objective the next time he had to sentence Jazz, and he’d been right.
“Well?” Jazz asked when Prowl’s silence dragged on too long for him. “Shall we get on with our usual song and dance?”
Prowl shook his helm and smiled. “Another time and place,” he said, putting a hand on Jazz’s shoulder and steering him toward Roadflare’s desk. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to pass this time due to conflict of interest.”
“Conflict of — you?! You don’t have conflicts of interest!” Jazz blurted out, loud enough to draw the attention of several nearby officers who couldn’t resist chiming in.
“Heh, yeah. That’d require having actual interests.”
“Outside of work, that is.”
“I mean, we all know you’re practically married to the job.”
“Fortunately my job,” Prowl said flatly, annoyed to the point of making a cutting remark of his own, “doesn’t take issue with me having friends.” Unlike his coworker’s conjunx. The unspoken subtext was crystal clear, and very effective at shutting everyone up. Prowl was able to finish marching Jazz over to Roadflare without any further commentary.
“Friends, huh?” Jazz asked as Prowl handed off his case. “That mean you ain’t gonna be arrestin’ me anymore? What if I like dealin’ with you better’n everyone else here? Don’t I get a say in this?”
“If you don’t like it, you could always try not getting arrested,” Prowl teased, and Jazz laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll be up to arresting you again soon enough.” He stopped in front of Jazz for a moment as he turned to go back to his desk. “I’m not trying to put any obligations on you. Just know that, while I don’t necessarily approve of all of your choices,” his optics flickered from Jazz’s face to the clamps and back, “I know you’re a good mech.”
Leaving Jazz with a stunned look on his face, Prowl returned to his desk in silence.
He should have known better than to think he’d gotten the last word on the subject.
When he got home that night, he was greeted by a familiar, unexpected voice. “Hey Prowl!” Jazz waved at him from his spot on Prowl’s couch. He’d clearly been there for a while. All the cushions were piled up around him, and there was an empty cube and several snack wrappers on the table in front of him. “Welcome home!”
“Jazz…” The front door fell shut behind Prowl. He didn’t bother asking how he’d known where Prowl lived, or how he’d gotten in. Prowl was pretty sure he could guess. “What are you doing in my house?”
“Sleeping over, obviously.” Jazz patted his nest. “And raiding the pantry. Friends don’t let friends go to sleep hungry on the street, right? Don’t worry, it’s just for tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Three days, tops, I promise. I got a gig lined up at the end of the week, and payment includes room’n board. That’s not a problem, is it?”
For a long moment, Prowl just stood in front of the door, unable to think of a single thing to say. He should be mad. He should haul Jazz off his couch and take him straight back to the station for breaking and entering and stealing energon. He shouldn’t even be considering letting the mech stay one night, let alone three.
Welcome home!
Friends don’t let friends go to sleep hungry.
Friends.
“No.” Prowl smiled, walking across the room to settle in his chair. “It’s not a problem at all.”