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pixel-transformers · 20 days ago

Note

Everything you've shared so far about the reverse mecha au really got the ideas going, and I just had to get this out of my system. It's still a rough draft and there's a lot I want to do with this and improve on, but I'm just happy I finally got it written down.

Prowl threw himself into the shadows of an enormous doorway as a line of blinding light widened and filled the dimmed corridor. He squeezed his eyes shut against the growing glow and strained his ears for any kind of noise. If the scratchy swishing was anything to go by, the Quintesson was moving away from him.

He peeked out from his hiding spot once the blaze of light disappeared from behind his eyelids. In the darkness he could just make out a massive form growing smaller and smaller as it moved down the passageway. He waited a few more seconds just to be safe, then dashed away in the opposite direction.

It hadn’t been long since he’d escaped from his cell, but he had no idea when his captors would decide to check on their prisoner. They could discover his absence any moment, and wouldn’t that be fantastic. He stood no chance against those aliens without his mecha, and it’d be infinitely more difficult to locate it and get out if the whole ship was out to find him—because he wasn’t dumb; for some reason the Quints wanted him alive.

It’d been a blur, his capture. From what he could recall though, the Quintessons had used much more excessive force on Jazz than on him. He couldn’t say why exactly they wanted him alive (though it certainly didn’t bode well for him), but he had no intention of finding out. At least, not while vulnerable.

So he had to get to his mecha and fast. Or Jazz, if he could find him. Whatever came first; he wouldn’t complain.

He picked up the slightest hissing sound, like air escaping from a balloon. Up ahead, another line of light struck the corridor wall as a door began to slide open. Prowl didn’t wait to see what came next; he sprinted for the closest doorway, (a much larger one, he noted distractedly). Squinting against the growing illumination, he pressed himself further into the fading shadows. This time, however, no actual door stopped his movement.

He stumbled into a dark room, the light in the corridor spilling into it like grasping fingers. Yet as quickly as it appeared, the darkness just as swiftly overtook it. He heaved a sigh of relief when he realized the Quintesson in the hallway also moved farther away.

He picked himself up and raised his head, only to be met with a sight he didn’t entirely expect.

Prowl had no words. He didn’t think it’d be this easy, but lo and behold, right at the end of the room stood his mecha. He could only make out the rough shape of it, but there was no mistaking the wings. He scanned the room (at least as well as he could) and listened for any unwanted company.

Nothing.

He stayed near the wall as he approached, already formulating a way to actually enter the mecha. It’d be difficult without a gangway, but he could make do with some of the structures already in the room. The huge boxes were too large, but that cylindrical shape—

Prowl froze.

He stared at the blurry silhouette, hardly believing his eyes. When he walked closer, though, there really wasn’t any denying it. Craning his head, Prowl made out the distinct shape of a weapon only one pilot ever managed to use.

He turned his attention back to the mecha, to the mecha he’d been so sure was his own (because only Support Class models had those wings, not Rescue, not Tanks, not Scouts). Except this close and he picked out all the small differences. The sleeker design meant to enhance mobility and speed. The specialized armor on the legs meant to support the mecha as it fired round after round. The guarded ports on its wrists so the massive firearm could integrate with the its systems more efficiently. The numbers that definitely did not read 028.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Prowl vaguely remembered a familiar voice mentioning “how cool it’d be to have wings like that!”

Against all odds, against everything he knew, here stood Bluestreak’s mecha intact and whole—sporting the wings his brother always wanted.

===========================

Bluestreak opened his eyes to a ceiling he didn’t recognize and stared at it, a bit dazed but intrigued nonetheless.

It was a little funny. Unlike the neat interior of his mecha or the orderly structure of Cybertronian ships, the ceiling looked like a piece of art. Like . . . like abstract art; like those paintings he could never really figure out. That's what the swirls and shapes reminded him of! The waves and curves ran along the entire ceiling like countless tiny streams converging and scattering. Did they start as one big wave, or had they begun as millions of tiny ones until they formed a whole?

Bluestreak tried craning his head to find out, but it moved too slow. He tried pushing himself up next, but only managed to curl the tips of his fingers.

Hmm, that was funny.

It was like his whole body was asleep. Or like it was super heavy . . . like if gravity was pressing down on him so much to keep in place. Yeah, exactly like that, because try as he might, nothing moved as he wanted except his eyes.

Well that’s not right—hold on.

A giddy laugh escaped his numb lips.

Sunny and Sides had pointed out that being confined to his mecha was like house arrest. Now that he was stuck in his own body, did that make him a fleshy prison? A fleshy prison for his soul? Or was it his spark? Wait, no, Sunny and Sides had sparks; he had a soul. Unless . . . what if those were just different words for the same thing? Actually it probably was since that sort of thing happened in basically every language. Aliens could have their own language but they’d probably have words to describe some of the same things he knew. Yeah, that was probably it. He’d already learned that concept first hand when he figured out Sunny’s and Side’s language. Maybe they knew about it too? Didn’t they say they’d been all over the universe? He was pretty sure they did. He’d have to ask about . . . ask about . . . There was something he wanted to tell—no ask—Sunstreaker and Sideswipe.

Bluestreak racked his brain for that something, but anytime he thought he grasped at it, it slipped away like fog. It was on the tip of his tongue, but it stubbornly refused to make itself known. How was he supposed to tell them this thing he didn’t know if he didn’t know what it was? They’d been patient enough waiting for him to talk but—actually, now that he thought about it, that wasn’t right. Things were kinda too quiet.

Normally Sideswipe had something to say when Bluestreak really got going, and Bluestreak always made a point to leave enough pauses so he could have his say too. And if he had nothing to add, Sunstreaker usually had short responses to keep the conversation going.

He scanned the room as well as he could, at least until it hurt trying to look out through his peripherals. He was pretty sure it was empty, well, aside from him of course.

So . . . it was just him in this med bay (at least, he thought it was a med bay what with all the beeping and whirring from behind him; if he could look behind himself there’d probably all sorts of machinery). Maybe the Twins didn’t want to be in this med bay; they did only ever go to medics they trusted, and he knew from experience they wouldn’t step foot into an unknown one if they could help it. Except . . . they wouldn’t let him go to an unknown one either. So maybe being in a strange room by himself wasn’t such a good thing even though he was able to be there without his head feeling like it was burning at a million degrees?

Bluestreak suddenly wished his brain wasn’t as murky as it was. It’d be so much easier to figure things out that way. Or if he could just ask Sunstreaker and Sideswipe about all this since they’d probably—

Footsteps echoed outside the room and he stared down his nose trying to see who’d enter.

“There you are!” The white and black Cybertronian who stepped into the weird med bay was definitely not Sunstreaker or Sideswipe—and he’d definitely just spoken English.

That was . . . surprising. Bluestreak couldn’t remember the last time he heard someone speak it.

The Cybertronian chuckled. “Did you get another concussion? What else would I be using with you?”

Had he said that out loud? “Oh, uh, it’s just basically everyone else I’ve seen doesn’t and I’m pretty sure none of them even know about it so this is definitely a surprise.”

“Riiiight.” The Cybertronian stepped closer then looked him up and down. His blue visor gleamed when he glanced to something behind Bluestreak. “Well none of this looks like it's trying to kill you. Let me figure out how to disconnect everything.”

“Oh, well that’s good. It’d kinda suck if it was killing me.”

“You’re telling me. Now, can you get up or . . . ”

“Right now it’s like gravity decided to pin me to this berth. That or maybe my body just got heavier?”

“Okay, I’m just going to help you up so I can start unhooking everything. Please let me know if anything starts hurting.” He gently slipped his fingers beneath Bluestreak’s back and carefully slid him back until he leaned against the beeping machine. “So how’re you feeling? Any other weird side effects aside from that and tolerating light?”

Tolerating light? “I mean, aside from becoming a fleshy prison for my spark-soul it’s also kinda nice to be outside my mecha prison without all the extra pain, you know? I mean, it’d also be nice if I could actually sit up on my own but other than that I think I’m doing just fine. Oh, by the way, if you can let Sunny and Sides know I’m okay that’d be really great!”

Now that he wasn’t on his back, he saw the mess of wires and cables trailing all over his body. Every few seconds he’d feel a soft tug from behind, then one of those wires retracted away from him. It was mesmerizing to watch, and he would’ve continued watching if not for the flare of light at his side.

He glanced up at the nice Cybertronian and found the gleaming blue visor focused on him.

“Er, is something wrong?” This time when he tried craning his head, his body actually complied. “I mean I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with you watching me, I appreciate the company, it’s just no one but the Twins really get this close to me. Something about how the others aren’t as used to organics, I guess.”

The visor continued to shine on him. “You’re not Prowl, are you?”

“Umm, no.” Bluestreak knew they looked similar, but was it really—waitaminute. His brain latched onto what he’d just said. “Wait . . . you’re looking for Prowl.”

“Uh, yeah. But now that I’m here I think you could do with some help too.”

“No—hold on—if you’re looking for Prowl that means he’s here? Like, on this ship here, right?” He didn’t wait for answer. “Can you take me to him?”

===========================

They watched the Quintesson turn the corner, waiting until the scraping of its armor faded away. Neither uttered a word; right now stealth was everything. The necessity of silence ruled out verbal communication, and the jamming device on the Quint ship compromised their comms. Though for them, that was hardly an obstacle.

//Found him yet?// Sunstreaker asked across their sparkbond.

//I think he should be up ahead.// Sideswipe answered.

Incredulity blossomed across their connection. //You think?//

//Well whenever the jamming isn’t messing with my sensors, I’m able to see an organic lifeform somewhere in front of us. So unless you found a way to deal with that, this’s the best we got.//

//Fine, let’s just get him and get out.// His brother made no sound as he sent that, but the frustration across their bond was enough to make up for it.

Sideswipe didn’t miss the way his hands tightened on his energon blades either. //Look, I know you’re twitchy with this many Quints, but—//

//I know. I’m not stupid.//

//Hey, just saying.//

//Yeah yeah. But if they did anything to him . . . //

//Nah, I got it. There’ll be a bloodbath for sure.//

They continued down the corridor until they reached the only open door they could see. Sunstreaker watched the hall while Sideswipe scanned the room. His sensors had cleared up some, but it still blurred with interference. From what he could tell though, the dot indicating Blue’s location had to be someone in the room. It would make sense too. His mech stood upright and offline at the back, his gun laid neatly at its pedes. If he’d managed to get away from the Quints, of course he’d go for his mech to get out.

//I don’t see anyone, but this is his last known location.// Sideswipe sent.

//This is the only room he could’ve entered, and there’s no sign of him out here.// Sunstreaker followed him in and used the blinking panel to close the door. //Let’s check it out.//

“Blue, you here?” Sideswipe called softly.

No answer.

//Can you see where exactly he is now?//

//Give me a klik.//

//Fine. I’ll check his mecha; maybe he’s inside and needs a power jump?// Sunstreaker approached it slowly and spoke quietly. “If you’re in there Blue, let me know now. Or else I’m assuming you need help getting your mech back online.”

Again, nothing.

Sideswipe watched his brother step up to the mech, hands slowly moving to its chassis. At the same time, the feedback in his HUD finally cleared. //Got something.//

Sunstreaker paused and followed his actions as he move to the side.

Sideswipe focused on the blinking dot and scanned the stacks of containers until—there! Peering over one of the lower stacks, he found a familiar head of white.

“Guess you didn’t need us for your grand escape, huh?” He lowered his hand. “Are you okay? I don’t know what the Quints did, but we gotta get you back to your mech and get outta here.”

He expected a flurry of chatter, maybe even some surprised exclamations. He did not at all anticipate the unintelligible yelling.

Sunstreaker rushed to his side in an instant. The fact he forewent their spark bond attested to his own shock. “Do you want us to get caught?”

“It’s not my fault!” Sideswipe protested. He tried scooping Bluestreak up, but their friend simply darted out of reach. “Just—Blue, it’s us!”

The human showed no signs of understanding or recognizing them. In fact, he went so far as to try running away.

Sunstreaker pushed the containers aside, cutting off his mad dash. “Bluestreak, come on.” His hand darted forward and grabbed him with deadly precision.

If he was yelling before, now he was screaming—and hitting.

“Wha—Blue, stop!” Sunstreaker met Sideswipe’s gaze. “Any ideas?”

“For starters don’t drop him!”

“No slag,” he snapped. “What else?”

“The Quints are probably behind this, so whatever they did we just have to reverse!”

“And how’re we supposed to do that?”

“I don’t know, maybe get him to his mech?”

“If he’s fighting us like this, what’s to stop him from fighting us when he’s inside it?”

“Well do you have any bright ideas?” Sideswipe demanded. The glare he got in response told him all he needed to know. “Look, let’s just get out of here. We have some good medics and scientists; they’ll know what to do.”

Sunstreaker held Bluestreak further away as his yelling devolved into screeching. “Yeah, good plan, except now our stealth’s fragged.”

Sideswipe had nothing to say to that. Yeah . . . things were a bit more complicated now.

===========================

Jazz held his hand over his shoulder, careful not to jostle Bluestreak as he moved down the corridor. Although, he probably didn’t have to worry about catching him any longer. Now that he wasn’t hooked up to that monstrosity of a machine pumping him full of Primus knew what, Bluestreak was more steady on his feet. In fact, Prowl’s brother seemed to have regained most of his mobility and presence of mind.

He no longer swayed as he held on to Jazz’s fingers, and he now kept his head on a swivel as they travelled through the Quintesson ship. Every now and then he’d point to something in the distance, and Jazz would follow his new directions. It wasn’t like he had any better idea of where to go; he’d mapped out most of the upper levels of the ship when he’d infiltrated, not those at the rear. Besides, the interference to most of his sensors also impeded them, so any direction (as long as it included minimal Quints) was better than none at all.

He felt a spike of nervousness from his shoulder, and scanned the darkened corridor. His visor picked up the slightest movement from the intersecting hallway up ahead, and he darted back to the corner they’d just passed. The faint sound of Quintesson armor scraping against itself echoed in the silence, then faded. Jazz peered around the corner and caught a glimpse of inky tentacles as the Quint moved out of the passageway. He glanced back at Bluestreak and gave a small nod. The human returned it with a shaky thumbs up.

Not for the first time, he wished they had some way to talk through comms. Sure, he could rely on Bluestreak’s EM field to get a basic read of threats he saw, but comms would’ve simplified communication. And given them a chance to actually talk.

Their first interaction might not have been the most accurate portrayal of character, but that along with the constant activity of Bluestreak’s EM field made it clear the human had a lot to say. The urge to speak became a tangible thing on his shoulder, one he could sympathize with. It wasn't often that—

Bluestreak’s EM field spiked with confusion, then jolts of shock.

Jazz looked his way and found him gripping his fingers. He scanned the corridor, then asked softly, “Bluestreak, what’s wrong?”

It took him a moment to answer. “You know how I mentioned I wasn’t able to stay outside my mech—” he squeezed his eyes shut like Prowl did when the lights were too much, then brought a hand to his head “—for long? I think whatever the Quints did so I’d be okay in that lab is wearing off.”

That wasn't good. “Then we better get you to your mech and fast.”

He began to move past the corner when muffled shouting drew him to a stop. The yelling—in languages he understood—was close by.

Jazz scanned the passageway again. No one new in sight, but the shouting clearly came from the hallway up ahead. He thought he could make out some pretty colorful swears and something about . . . a race?

Bluestreak managed a weak smile. “Something tells me we should check that out.”

“I’m inclined to agree.”

Jazz stepped away from their hiding place and moved towards the noise. Hopefully they’d be the only ones who noticed the commotion.

Well, I wanted to keep going with the eventual reunion and the epic fight scene, but that's something I want to do justice to (so maybe next time, hopefully). 'Cause that'd have a great way to explain why Blue had the wings added to his mecha (I was thinking maybe he got them installed later by the Cybertronian scientists who'd helped him before, probably to help him with processing all the information he'd be getting? And to his mind, what would be better to use as a reference than the one other mecha he knew pretty well?) Oh, and that bit about a race...I thought it'd be funny if Sunny and Sides finally settled on the idea of just transforming and racing out of the ship. Like Jazz and Blue enter the room to see them fighting about who'd be taking "Blue" with them, and their arguing had just devolved into who's the fastest

This was a treat to read!

Love it when things get shuffled around a characters have to improvise how’ll they’ll work together on the fly.

Also love the use of Prowl’s crappy vision to draw out the reveal. Poor dudes loosing his mind most likely trying to interrogate Sunny and Sides for the location of his brother.

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pixel-transformers · 21 days ago

Text

Odds of Survival part 10 Finale

First contact, take two.

Go check out @keferon as the creator of the AU!

———————————————————————

Prowl stared at the lifeless body on the floor.

Visor dim, chest closed. Were it not for the absolute silence it offered, one might, without listening closely, assume it was merely an unconscious mech.

He ran the numbers again.

Odds of Survival 17%

The edge of his desk pressed a hard line against the backs of his legs and the palms of his servos. A steadily growing back log of frantic comms messages plinked across his processor like marbles rolling down a flight of stairs.

Red Alert: 13 messages and counting.

Velocity: 2 messages.

Elita One: 3 messages. . . 4 messages.

Odds of Survival 15%

Knocking- no, banging at the door. Red Alert, 76%.

Muffled, “Prowl open the door!”

“Answer your comms!”

“What’s happening in there?!”

Red Alert, 99%.

Slowly, Prowl moved his doorwings in a slow arch, quadruple checking that everything in his office was exactly where he needed it to be. Maximizing his chances.

“Open the door. Now.”

Elita (98%) was still speaking to him and not physically breaking into the room by force.

Odds of Survival 20%.

Without looking away from the body, Prowl unlocked the door to his office.

Guarded and cautious, the captain and security officer entered the room. Elita had a weapon drawn, but kept her blaster aimed at the floor, locking onto the body with an iron focus.

Conversely, Red Alert sucked in a vent at the sight, immediately raking his optics over every visible surface, searching frantically for signs of danger.

“What happened-how’d he get in here-who’s he work for-why’d you stop responding-where has he been-WHAT HAPPENED?!”

The mech was practically bouncing off the walls, static crackling with enough excess charge to diffuse the room with a heavy scent of ozone. The only reason Red Alert wasn’t currently tearing the place apart already was the way he looked at every object like a potential improvised explosive.

Ignoring the smaller mech, Elita ordered an answer, “Prowl. Explain. Now.”

His fans were audibly running high. Prowl did nothing to mask the obvious sign of stress. He carefully recited his script.

“Roughly one cycle ago, I rescued an unconscious mech from deep space after he’d fallen from a quintesson gate tear. He was friendly, albeit very unfamiliar with his surroundings. Including some of the very common alien species on board our transport.”

Calmly, Prowl looked up to read the other mechs reactions so far. Elita was remaining mostly focused on the body, but sent a sidelong glance aimed towards the tactician. Meanwhile, Red Alert looked ready to burst, about to interrupt Prowls script.

“You may search my office as I explain.” The security chiefs engine practically growled by the fourth word of being given permission, and dove behind Prowls desk for frantic inspection.

The captain nodded her head for Prowl to continue.

“Over the course of our short time together, I collected more unusual details about this mech. Compiling them in an effort to better understand “Jazz” as he refers to himself.” With a flick, Prowl brought up the conspiracy board for Elita Ones review.

The blue glow helped illuminate the dimmed office interior.

The alternate Functionalist Creation Theory was already deleted, leaving just the alien theory.

“On route towards the pick up location, Jazz, through somewhat clunky common, explained he was built specifically to fight quintessons. This claim immediately became verifiable when we were attacked by a not inconsiderable quintesson force.”

His doorwing twitched another scan.

Without turning around, Prowl knew the exact moment Red Alert discovered Jazz’s shoulder piece he’d stashed in his desk to be found. The sound of sudden disgust followed by a dropped clunk was reassurance enough.

“He then saved my life, multiple times and at significant injury to his own frame, as you are no doubt aware of Captain.” She did in fact look more closely at the fresh welds along the shoulder she’d seen barely clinging on not forty breems ago.

“After sustaining these injuries, I assisted Jazz with some basic field repairs. During which I discovered they had no previous experience with anesthetic and generally seemed to expect significantly harsher treatment than what I would consider “normal or ethical” medical care.”

Prowl vented, nodding towards the screen. “Bluestreak can verify the accuracy of these statements. There are some transcripts of our conversations on the board as well.”

Faintly, Prowl could hear Red Alert mouth the words, “ -don’t always die either, sometimes they just go crazy??” in quiet horror.

Odds of Survival 25%

The increase steadied Prowl slightly as he continued. “On our way to the medbay, Jazz expressed some anxiety over being treated by a professional. He-“

The praxian swallowed.

Prowl couldn’t really act, but luckily he didn’t have to. “He requested not be restrained or sedated, and gave- permission, to use force against him if he did become.. ungovernable.”

For the first time, Prowl released a servo from the desk and used it to gesture broadly to the whole situation.

It fell somewhat limp at his side.

“Velocity preformed the necessary repairs, noting a sudden decline in Jazz’s language capabilities as well as strong evidence for prior medical abuse.”

“Shortly afterwards, Jazz temporarily fled the medbay.”

That eleven letter word was a load bearing component of Jazz’s survival.

Some of the tension returned to the room as they were all reminded of the inciting incident. Prowl had significant practice in withdrawing his emotions, and now more than ever did he need to appear neutral.

“Jazz escaped by utilizing a strong magnetic grip to both damage the locks as well as scale the ceiling through the blind spots of the cameras. He traveled only a short distance into Rune’s office, where the therapist was able to talk him down somewhat. Jazz then sought to “tell me something important” encountering Whirl along the way.”

Red Alert had finished tearing apart Prowls desk, and was now carefully inching his way closer to the body still on the floor. Hesitantly, as if it could strike without warning.

Prowl resisted the urge to tense.

“Both mechs can corroborate the timeline. Shortly after, I discovered Jazz lost in the halls and brought him to the nearest room I had control over. My office.”

Inspecting the frame for subspace pockets it didn’t have, the security chief crackled lightly with frustration.

Snippily, Red Alert snapped at him, “So the oil pot got you alone, in your office no less, under the pretenses of distress JUST like I said he would.”

“Red Alert.” The smaller mech jolted but looked his Captain in the optics. Elita One held a steady, cold Calm over the room. Her field not to be overruled. “Have you found anything yet?”

“Well, no. But I haven’t looked everywhere.”

The Captain silenced him with a raise of her hand. “Then finish your search, and Prowl will finish his report.”

She nodded for them both to resume their parts.

Odds of Survival 33%

The tactician nodded gratefully in return.

“Jazz was behaving irrationally. Nervous. Confused. He made statements that didn’t make sense and given his helm injury, I had strongly suspected he was crashing. Or his species equivalent to it.”

Prowl watched very carefully as Red Alert finished his search, faster than expected. The total lack of any signs of life coupled with the mention of crashing made the mech’s optics go impossibly wide. “Did he- is he?”

Prowl passively waved his servo at the body. “He’s not dead, although by cybertronian standards it may appear that way. This state is relatively normal from what Velocity has noted.”

“So if you thought he was having a medical emergency, why didn’t you call for help?” The captain didn’t quite relax, but did seem to accept Jazz wasn’t going to spring up at any moment.

No no no no. Please god no.

Prowl snapped out of the memory. Once more resetting his optics.

“He. . asked me not to. I chose not to risk agitating him or his injury further.” Prowl’s wings twitched minutely, tracking Red Alerts movement towards Greens habitat.

“And then?”

“He confessed to me he was an alien.” Prowl stated mirthlessly.

For the first time Elita took her eyes off the body, cycling her optics and turning towards Prowl, who could only press his mouth into a thin line.

“Jazz was totally unaware he was completely isolated on an unknown alien vessel. At least until very recently.” Prowl finished.

There was a flicker of some other emotion through Elita’s field. He’s had enough people pity him to recognize the sensation.

A yelp from Green’s habitat had both Prowl and Elita One rounding on Red Alert. The mech was clutching his servo like it’d been lacerated.

“It tried to bite me! It tried to bite me!”

Sure enough, a low throaty hiss emanated from the top of Green’s enclosure. The flyt glared down over the edge of her highest platform at the short mech. Her crest and throat were flushed a dark purple with territorial fury.

“An erratic mech is forcibly intruding on her personal space. The urge to bite is a sympathetic one.” Prowl growled, stood in the center of his completely overturned office.

“Leave the damn flyt alone Red. Prowl, get to the fragging point.” At last, Elita holstered her weapon, glowering at them both.

Odds of survival 45%

The tactician turned back to the captain, “Between the shock, exhaustion and his injuries, I believe Jazz went into his species version of an involuntary shutdown. I have done everything I can to stabilize him from crashing.”

He rubbed his helm where his own would-be crash had wanted to form, “I have the relevant experience.”

Elita One studied Prowls face with a piercing gaze. Narrowing slightly.

“Why did you stop responding to comms for almost a full breem?”

His fans still running on high, helm burning and sensor net itching, Prowl put all his will into suppressing any exhaustion born sass.

“I nearly crashed.”

“You nearly crashed.” Elita reiterated.

Prowl nodded.

The captain considered this for a time.

“Red Alert, I want this ship deep cleaned. Full search and scan from top to bottom. Get the ceilings covered and figure out something for the locks to counter the super magnet situation.”

Optics brightening to luminosity of head lights, Red Alert stammered in reply, “E-even your quarters Captain?”

Elita looked like she was contemplating the taste of a fistful of nails, rolling her optics as she grit out, “Yes. This one time, and you explicitly do not have permission to place any form of surveillance inside.”

Red Alert saluted so hard he left a dent.

“YES CAPTAIN I WON’T MAKE YOU REGRET THIS CAPTAIN THANK YOU CAPTAIN!”

“Go!”

The red mech had his sirens blaring before his tires even hit the ground. Leaving the remaining mechs almost alone.

The sound of Elita One’s peds clacking against the metal floor made Prowl’s wings twitch.

Arms crossed, she stared the praxian down.

“Tell me everything you just redacted.”

Prowl did not immediately respond, still staring down at the body on the floor. His doorwings rotated satellite slow.

Without a word, Prowl took his weight off of the desk, walking up to Greens enclosure, where he gently pushed the flyt aside and collected what was hidden beneath her.

“This-“ Prowl cupped his servos around a small white and blue form, “is Jazz.”

——————

The logic cascade nearly consumed him.

Prowl was holding Jazz’s spark.

Jazz.

The mecha’s chest plate had opened. Revealing only the faintest glow within, washed out entirely by the harsh overhead lights of Prowls office.

Irrationally, Prowls higher functioning stalled out and his processor defaulted to some spark deep coding to make sense of what was happening.

He’s exposing his spark. He’s showing me his spark and he’s still crashing.

He’s going to crash and die with his fragging spark out in my office Oh fragging Primus Not here not like THIS.

A ringing.

Shrill and strangled. A dissonant sting.

An EM field.

Jazz’s EM field.

Faint. Faint but sharp, like an almost invisible shard of glass that only becomes known once it’s lodged itself beneath your armor.

The scream warbled and popped like a blown radio speaker. Some-thing fell forward from Jazz’s chassis.

His spark his spark his spark is falling out of his chest.

Jerking forward on instinct, Prowl cupped his servos and caught what wasn’t a spark- that’s not a spark this is NOT A SPARK.

A body, limp and silent. Tissue paper light in the way only non-metallic life forms can be.

It’s in his servos it’s in his servos it’s in his ser>%$.

Prowl was static. From his mind to his body. Pure static. Frozen yet screaming internally on his knees, staring down at everything that made Jazz alive.

He held the Spark-body-organic-not spark- Spark-SPARK-SPARK-ITS NOT JAZZ-NOT A SPARK ITS \#}>%*!? JAZZ-IT IS JAZ%-IT IS-IT IS- in his servos.

Gently.

Sparks Organics were very fragile.

He knew that. Prowl held onto that. Gently. Very gently.

He slotted the simple equation into place.

How to keep Jazz not-spark alive.

Odds of Survival. . .

——————

The weight in his palms felt imaginary. Too small to be real.

Yet here was Elita One as his witness. Thrown Off was a look seldom worn by the Captain and it was clearly an uncomfortable fit.

“This is Jazz?” She echoed Prowl, reaching out a servo to the unconscious whatever Jazz was.

The praxian stiffened, manually canceling the move to pull Jazz away from the other mechs reach. He didn’t, however, quite manage to cancel his vocalizer, a “Please be careful.” busting out despite himself.

Elita shot him an affronted look, plucking Jazz from his servos. “I know how to not kill an organic Prowl.”

She turned her servo over, using her thumb to roll the alien onto its back. “You let me hold Green.” She muttered.

“Green is much larger and I actually know what she is.” He was hovering, Prowl knew he was hovering and that Elita hated it when people hovered but it was really just a race to see who pissed off who first right now.

“Okay, okay, so what’s wrong with.. this one?”She gestured with the digit she was using to prod Jazz, closely examining the unconscious organic.

Not for the first time that day, Prowl rubbed a servo over his head, “I-I am unsure. It’s incredibly faint but he is breathing. I did mean it when I said I think he fainted from shock and possibly exhaustion. Organics typically require rest and fuel much more frequently than us and Jazz was extremely active for a highly extended period of time.”

Prowl cleared his vents, “At least, compared to a flyt. I do not have many other data points for comparison.”

Considering this, Elita frowned at the aliens inorganic casing and then at the motionless mecha on the floor. Definitely an aesthetic match. She considered something for a moment, frowning.

“Do you- Ew, ew, it’s twitching. Take it. Take it back.”

Not quite panicking, Elita effectively half-tossed half-dropped the alien back into Prowls anxious servos.

For several long and ancient clicks, neither mech moved, holding perfectly still as the alien shifted in Prowls servos.

Holding him like this, Prowl can feel Jazz’s field again. Faintly, like the sound of rustling branches on the edge of conscious hearing, the field tickled his palms. Unlike the mecha, Jazz’s visor wasn’t opaque, allowing Prowl to see the faint scrunch of his face and the way it smoothed out again once back in Prowl’s care.

His field dropped back into a near silent whisper.

Prowl made a ball of his servos, sealing off Jazz from anything else that might happen.

“We can set them up in a holding cell or something.” Elita said quietly, flicking her hand in exasperation. “Maybe under a glass bowl. I’ll arrange for someone else to handle questioning.”

The praxian straightened up at that, looking back to his captain, “Sir, I am the best suited to question Jazz.”

Arms crossing, Elita One gave Prowl an appraising look. “You said so yourself that you nearly just crashed. Why can’t anyone else do it?”

Nodding in understanding, Prowl pitched his counter argument, “As it stands, I have the best rapport with him. The only other mechs Jazz has met is Bluestreak, Velocity and yourself.”

“Jazz gets along with Bluestreak, however my brother is not well suited for interrogations.” Which wasn’t entirely true, Prowl kept to himself. Subjecting detainees to Bluestreaks small talk for several groons frequently made said individuals much more receptive to questioning by subsequent officers.

That currently didn’t help however.

“Velocity is a medic, which Jazz is terrified of and has zero experience with interrogations.” The knowledge of where this chaos began was still fresh. Fresher still was Prowl’s memory of Jazz pleading to not wake up on a table.

“And I mean no offense captain, but the last time Jazz saw you, you had threatened to rip off one of his arms and beat him with it.” Elita shrugged and gave Prowl a “Fair Enough” look.

“Statistically speaking, Jazz is most likely to answer honestly to someone he considers an ally. Regardless of how others may view my reputation, Jazz did specifically choose me to explain himself to before he lost consciousness.”

Venting, Elita considered the facts and stepped slightly closer. Prowl held his posture as formally as he could despite how his servos were positioned. The harsh look in his captains optics softened only slightly hearing his fans continue on high power.

“Are you sure you can handle this? Medically speaking?”

In a rare break of form, Prowl let his doorwings sink to a less physically taxing position. “The initial shock has passed. I will not crash.”

Probably. 67%.

Breaking eye contact, Prowl stared at the mess of data pads now scattered on his office floor. 85% of which was commissioned work directly from Megatron.

“I do not know how long it will take for Jazz to wake up. I do know I will not be very effective at my job until this is resolved.”

Finally stepping back, Elita had the look of someone using comms. “Officially, I’m putting you on medical leave for the next couple cycles. Megatron will have to make his own poor decisions for awhile.”

She paused by the body. “What do we do with this?”

It was heavier than it looked. Prowl knew now from experience. The mechs needed to remove it would add to the list of possible loose ends to an already sensitive situation.

“We can leave it for now. I will not allow Jazz access to it until I am more certain of his intentions.”

She hummed in response. Eyeing where Jazz was currently contained, Elita made her way to the door, “I need to go do damage control, alert me the instant their condition changes. Yours too.”

“Understood. And thank you. For listening.”

Awkwardly, Prowl looked anywhere but the captain, and Elita wordlessly waved him off. Both mechs quickly abandoned the moment of mutual care and thankfulness in favor of their usual personas.

Soon enough, Elita was gone.

Cracking open his hold, Prowl peeked at his alien charge.

Still sleeping.

Almost imperceptibly, Prowl could make out the slight rhythmic expansion of his chest. Limbs tucked close, Jazz was loosely curled on his side into a ball, showing no signs of waking.

Odds of Survival 63%.

The gauntlet was over, now it was all up to Jazz.

——————

Prowl lay slumped over on his desk.

His arms fenced in a pile consisting of every instant cold pack he kept in his office, which were currently arranged to completely bury his head.

After two and a quarter groons, the packs were mostly room temperature but the way they blocked out most light and sound was nice.

The door to Green’s habitat was left open. It was a risky move but a pleasant surprise that the flyt chose cuddles over consumption in regards to the small alien. Prowl hadn’t counted on her getting protective over the fellow organic, but it was certainly a relief.

Placing Jazz back in Greens nest seemed the safest option at the time. Soft but contained. Green certainly had no qualms and arranged herself as she saw fit. Prowl figured she must know more than him about this and let her be.

Currently, the flyt had started trilling happily. Prowls doorwings twitched. Scanning the room for the umpteenth time before relaxing again.

The only other sounds were the noises the Lost Light usually produced and Prowls own body functions.

It was quiet. As quiet as his office normally was anyways. The flyt continued her quiet song.

Actually, Green was trilling very loudly right now.

Then, Prowl picked up on a second, much stranger pitch.

Speech. Specifically speech in the tone of cooing.

Rising from his mountain of maladaptive coping, Prowl lethargically turned his helm to the habitat. The cooing continued unawares.

Standing now, Prowl looked into Greens nest to see what was going on.

The flyt had her beak almost tucked against her belly, forehead pressed against Jazz’s chest.

Awake, and lying on his back, the alien was reaching around the flyts comparatively massive head to scritch and scratch at the back of her neck. Paying special attention to the crease where Green’s crest met her head, causing the flyt to trill like crazy.

All the while, the alien matched her vocal tone, speaking absolute nonsense in his native language. {D’aww you like that big guy? Yes you do! You’re just a giant love bug aren’t you?}

It took a couple tries, but after several resets Prowl believed his optics were working.

The alien noticed him at last and smiled at him from around Green. “Oh hey Prowler!”

“Are-“ his voice clipped.

Resetting his vocalizer this time, Prowl tried again, “You are remarkably calm right now.”

Not stopping his ministrations, Jazz hummed nonchalantly, “Well yeah, s’not like this is real.”

Prowl felt he had underestimated Jazz’s capacity to screw with his head.

“What.” He searched for any signs that he had fallen into defrag. Finding none.

“You think this isn’t real?” Prowl asked incredulously.

Jazz raised an eyebrow, smiling at the tactician.

“Prowl. Babydoll. I’m petting a {dinosaur.}”

He said with the most “you serious right now?” look reserved for only the most ridiculous of questions.

Prowl, might, kill Jazz himself.

Very hide-able body.

Very feasible.

He’s hidden bigger.

Instead, Prowl schooled his emotions. He would not, under any circumstances, allow himself to loose control like he did during Jazz’s confession.

Bringing his servos together as if he was a praying mech, Prowl calmly asked, “Why do you think this isn’t real?”

Jazz shrugged, “I mean, which is more likely? That I fell through a space spanning portal only to be rescued by some handsome alien who’s entire species just so happens to look exactly like mechas? Or that going through that portal permanently damaged something in here?”

The alien pointed at his own head for emphasis, carrying on, “And this is all some end of life {hallucination} my brain came up with where I’m actually fine, dinosaurs are pet-able and robots turn into cars.”

Prowl stopped Tacnet before it could take the prompt. Because it would calculate those odds, it would agree with Jazz, and then Prowl would crash for real this time.

“Well then can you at least pretend this is actually happening?” He was getting angry. He was getting angry again and he needed to stop before he did any more damage.

His doorwings and servos shook from how tightly he was holding them. He would stay calm. He would stay calm.

His field was seeping out again, but Prowl now knew from experience that trying to stop it now would just cause whatever hold he had on it to break loose.

[PROWL]: Jazz is awake. I am handling it]

[ELITA-1]: Keep me appraised]

[ELITA-1]: If Jazz turns out to be a liability he’s gone, and you’re going to scour the outside of the shop for all those “listening devices” Red Alert is now freaking out about]

The cold packs had done wonders earlier and Prowl was about to undo all the good they’d done.

He let the anger stay but cool into something usable. “Listen to me.”

Prowl leaned in just close enough to feel the bare hint of Jazz’s field. It was still incomprehensible but maybe he’d understand Prowl’s.

“My boss is currently demanding to know what you and your intentions are, and if I can’t provide a satisfactory answer we’re both going out of an airlock.” Prowl hissed.

Jazz stilled.

He looked over Prowl again, then back to Green. A melody Prowl hadn’t been aware of juttered to a stop, and that reedy dissonant sting reappeared. The alien looked down wide eyed at Green, slowly raising his hands away from the massive animal.

“Oooooh Fuck me this is actually real.”

The wonderful scritches having suddenly stopped, Green clicked unhappily and shoved her forehead more forcefully against Jazz’s chest.

The alien wheezed as all the air in his body was forced out, eyes bulging and panicked. Jazz began rapidly tapping Greens head, trying to speak without breath, “Help. Help help help help help.”

“Green! To me!”

The flyt thankfully followed the hurried command, only needing to flap once to clear the distance between her nest and Prowls pauldron. The sudden gust of wind had Jazz jerking into a ball at the gale force buffeting.

Lightly keeping one servo on his flyt, Prowl leaned in close as he could to check Jazz over for damages.

No bodily fluids leaking, no screaming, still breathing. Good.

Jazz uncurled slowly, making intense eye contact as he pulled air back into his body.

He coughed, “Uh, hi.”

“Hello.” Prowl unconsciously copied the motion, clearing a vent, “Are you hurt?”

Jazz patted his chest in a few places, “Nothing broken. A little dizzy but I’ve felt worse.”

A little bit of relief went a long way right now, and Prowl pretty much sagged with it. “Good. Right. Now, if you could describe what insane circumstances resulted with you, inside of that, I would greatly appreciate an explanation.”

Prowl waved his free servo over to the mecha still on the floor. He didn’t miss the way Jazz’s eyes lit up seeing it and the following look of concentration as he suddenly realized how high up he was.

“Right, right. Okay, I’ll try.” Jazz swung his legs over the side of the nest, needing his arms to keep himself upright.

Idly, Prowl pet Green to keep her content on his shoulder, as Jazz centered himself to try and bridge the gap of misunderstanding.

———

About a decade and a half ago, my world started to end.

Giant fuck-off aliens descended across the Earth, destroying everything in their paths. They didn’t know the difference between cities and savannas, just plowed on through from one to the other. Maybe they actually did but it just wasn’t a difference that mattered.

That all changed once we fought back.

Conventional weapons worked at first, but then they started sending bigger, faster and meaner motherfuckers. The first wave didn’t care, just dug around in random places.

But the second wave?

We were fucked.

The biggest problem was that the thing’s barely cared what was attacking them. Civilian casualties skyrocketed. Fighter planes couldn’t keep their attention and tanks couldn’t maneuver well enough through the shattered landscape.

There was one thing the fuckers never seemed to ignore though.

Statues. Big ones.

Christ the Redeemer, The Statue of Liberty, if it was huge and human shaped the invaders would B-line for them.

One day some genius pitched the idea of J-Boy and Lady Libs bitch slapping some aliens, and most of the world was at the “Fuck It” stage anyways.

Next thing we know, there’s this, gigantic, fuckin’ robot stumbling around the West Coast.

The first ever mecha.

Built from hopes and dreams and I think a couple decommissioned battle ships, the Vanguard had one real job.

Draw away the invaders, take hits and probably blow up.

Story goes that one of the pilots decided this wasn’t going to be a suicide mission anymore.

They fought, and they won.

San Francisco. The first city to have more living than dead after an attack. My home.

After that day? The mecha program was officially formed. More mechas were made, more pilots were trained, and ten years later we’ve fought the invaders to a standstill.

Someone finally suggests taking the fight to them, and bada bing bada boom ya boy Jazz is getting shot into space.

———

“Then a, what was it, a quintessential showed up.”

“Quintesson.” Prowl corrected through his servos.

“Thank you! I kicked it in the face, we fell through the tear into some kind of command center. Everybody freaked out, somebody reactivated the portal machine thingy and well, you know the rest!” Jazz at last stopped emoting with his hands, letting them come to rest on his lap. His story complete.

Prowl had to get a chair halfway through.

He was not going to crash.

He fragging wasn’t.

The fact that his face was buried in his servos and that Green was anxiously trying to preen his chevron meant nothing.

He listened to Jazz say one insane thing, and put a pin in it. He then heard a second insane thing, and added a second, larger pin.

And so on.

There where quite a lot of pins at this point and Prowl wasn’t entirely sure how to grab just one without poking himself on another.

His fans were on again.

The tactician wiped his servos down his face, “Who- who are your allies? How many planets does your kind control?”

Meeting his gaze, Jazz frowned. “Do you mean alien allies? Cause no, it’s just us. One people, one planet.” He said holding up a solitary finger.

Currently Jazz was sat on the floor, leaning against Greens nest. Earlier, the pilot had tried to stand briefly but nearly collapsed. Waving off Prowl’s concern with an “I’m fine! This is normal.”

One. More. Pin.

“Hell, you’re the first alien I’ve ever met that didn’t want me dead.”

Shaking his helm in disbelief, Prowl started cutting back logic branches that’d surely result in a cascade. “This, this is a lot to process.”

Jazz had the audacity to laugh, “Hey, you’re tellin’ me.”

Eyes roving Prowl’s frame, Jazz sat up a bit straighter as they realized something.

The alien rubbed the back of his neck, “Uh, I’d like to also apologize. For what happened earlier.”

Resting his elbows on his knees, the space around Prowl’s optics tightened, “Yes. Well, I did not behave in a manner I will ever be particularly proud of either. I assure you I do not usually loose control like that.”

“I hope you can forgive me.” Staring at the floor between his peds, Prowl’s doorwings fell low in apology. He was so caught up in his own self righteous rage he’d screamed down at a mech who’d needed him. Who trusted him.

Jazz however, just seemed confused. “What? You didn’t do anything wrong, I was the one getting all handsy on the bridge.”

The praxian snapped up straight.

“Right. That. I also, yes. That.”

“In my defense,” Jazz raised his hands and bowed his head, “I thought you were a guy in a suit like me. Didn’t know I was actually grabbing the real you.”

Resetting his vocalizer, he spoke much more quietly. “Yes, well. It was an understandable mistake.”

“Still would though.”

“What?”

They stared at each other in silence for several clicks.

For all his expressiveness, Jazz had a way of totally shutting off any visible tells the second he wanted to. The only tell of any kind was a practiced deceptively neutral smile beneath his visor. His mouth twitched.

The silence finally broke when Jazz growled.

Immediately leaning back defensively, Prowl wrinkled his nose when Jazz started laughing like crazy, snorting a bit before finally loosing steam.

Taking deep breaths, Jazz closed his eyes.

“Sorry, sorry, that wasn’t directed at you. My stomach does that when I haven’t eaten in a while.” He rolled his head over to look at Prowl, eyes peeking back open. “Could’ya help me back to my mecha? I’ve got some rations in there.”

Prowl was already moving his servo inside before he could think better of it. From there, Jazz did not so much climb as he did roll over onto Prowls open palm. Sitting crisscrossed.

Something faintly like a pleasant hum touched his field.

Once out of the enclosure, the tactician studied the now conscious creature curiously. Bright eyed and without hiding it, Jazz studied him as well. A melody he didn’t recognize played against the pulse of his wrist.

He found that if he turned Jazz just the right way, the light from the theory board would turn his visor opaque. Every time he turned Jazz back, the visor cleared, and the subtle shock of sudden eye contact had him repeating the motion. Prowl got lost in trying to find the exact angle where Jazz was halfway between hidden and revealed.

Every time he did, Jazz would shift almost imperceptibly. Hidden and revealed again at his own discretion.

They stood there together, longer than either had expected.

Eventually, it was Prowl’s turn to break the silence, “You trust me. Why?”

Finally moving towards the mecha, there must have been some proximity sensor on Jazz’s person that triggered the chest plates to open.

Wings fluttering, Prowl subconsciously averted his gaze as Jazz scooted off his servo and into the cavity. The sound of tiny boots clanking.

Still not looking, he heard Jazz answer, “Breaking it down into three layers, there’s number one: I don’t exactly have any other options.”

A quick doorwing scan revealed the incredibly complex interior of Jazz’s suit, which somehow felt even more inappropriate than openly staring. Prowl pinned his wings together and stared resolutely at the ceiling.

“Number two: If you were going to kill me, you would have by now.” The sound of Jazz rustling around in their mecha abruptly stopped as the pilot spoke to Prowl more directly. “Hey, you good?”

Determined not to address this right now, Prowl simply shook his head. “I’m fine. Continue.”

He could almost hear Jazz thinking at this point, “Oooh right, the open chest cavity is probably pretty gross for you huh?”

Prowl squinted harder at the ceiling, “Not. Exactly.”

Jazz made some sort of noise of interest but thankfully choose to leave it for now. Instead, Prowl felt him clamber back onto his servo and heard the chest plates close back up.

Prowl finally looked back down at the human who’d gathered a backpack full of supplies. He carried him back to his desk and sat, releasing the small alien and leaning down low to look him in the face.

Jazz smiled back at him, “Reason number three: I like you.”

Prowl reset his optics and swore that made Jazz smile even harder. “Why?”

“Beats me.” Jazz shrugged, pulling out some ration packages.

“It’s probably a bunch of little things all added together. Super smart, fun to piss off, likes animals, can hold down a job, didn’t freak out and squash me like a bug. Hard to say for certain, but yeah, I like you.”

That was an exceptionally rare opinion to hear.

Gradually, Prowl began to feed all the information Jazz had provided into Tacnet in an effort to focus on more productive things.

There was an alien species capable of monumental destruction currently at war with the quintessons. Jazz liked him. Jazz held a favorable opinion of Prowl and could possibly be convinced to view Cybertronians in general with similar affability. Jazz was a fantastic ally on the field. There were multiple other fighters like Jazz on his home planet. They might also be convinced to “like” cybertronians.

The entire reason Prowl had been in deep space that cycle was because he was on a mission to find potential allies with other alien civilizations.

On the transport back, Prowl had written the mission off as an abject failure. Organics generally either hated Cybertronians, or feared them to the point of uselessness.

And yet.

Prowl crossed his arms on the table, getting more comfortable.

[PROWL]: My original mission has become a tentative success]

[PROWL]: Jazz has been cooperative so far, and if we can verify everything he’s told me, we could potentially form a highly favorable alliance with his people]

[ELITA-1]: He’s not freaked out about being tiny and squish-able any more? How’d you get him to talk?]

[PROWL]: I simply listened. He’s a shameless flirt]

[ELITA-1]: What]

[PROWL]: I will elaborate later. I am technically on medical leave still]

[ELITA-1]: Prowl what]

A rare sense of smugness filled Prowls field. He watched as Jazz played keep-away with Green for his limited rations. To give him some peace, he recovered the flyt, and Prowl set his mind to finding this Earth as soon as possible.

———

Jazz folded his hands behind his head, staring blankly at the star map.

“So?” Prowl prompted.

The human looked relaxed, maybe almost disinterested, however that dissonant ringing sting was back in his field. “I have no idea what I’m looking at.”

Fine. Fine. This was fine.

The map probably wasn’t formatted in a way Jazz was used to viewing. Prowl skipped around through a few other maps, landing on some deep space photographs instead. “Okay, well, what’s the farthest your species has traveled into space?”

“Our planets moon.” Jazz smiled in a tight-eyed sort of way with too many teeth.

Prowl stalled out, “I- How?!? How does your species have the technological development to create drivable weapons shaped like people but you lack the technology to reach past your own moon? What method of space travel are you using where the moon is the limit?”

“Big missiles.”

The tactician slowly raised his servos to his face.

“Jazz.”

“Yeah Prowler?” He said with faux casualness.

“When you said that you, and I quote, “got shot into space.” Prowl took a long deep vent. “You were being literal?”

At the very least Jazz had the decency to look sheepish. Risking a glance, he saw Prowl’s irises spinning like crazy again.

The tactician brought his chevron back down to his most used pillow, his desk. He crossed his arms over his helm for good measure, willing his helm to not explode.

What kind of demented species was so overly specialized for combat that projectile explosives were considered a reasonable form of transportation?

. . .The same kind that can hold off a Quintesson invasion by themselves.

He needed Jazz. The whole Decepticon movement needed that alliance with his people. They were spread too thin. Too many enemies. Not enough support.

Megatron barely approved Elita-one’s proposal to attempt to establish trade relations with known organic civilizations. And only under the condition that the trade heavily favored the Decepticons.

But these were fellow combatants. For all the high command’s xenophobia, they at least respected exceptional acts of violence.

It was a solution just out of reach.

Earth was presumably located on the edge of the Quintessons territory. Given the necessity of using rifts to approach the planet, there was likely a dedicated Quintesson Gate Station somewhere within the Human’s solar system. When asked to describe the type of Star his planet orbited, Jazz answered with a less than helpful “Yellow.”

If roughly 18% of the average galaxy had yellow stars, then that would still be around 80 billion stars. Even excluding stars without Earth sized planets, that’s easily still twenty billion different stars in just one galaxy. If they could somehow accurately survey up to 8 planets per breem, it would take a little over 761 Vorns to finishing sweeping one galaxy under Quintesson control.

Assuming the Quintessons didn’t kill them first that is.

He’d need to find another way.

The human blew a raspberry after Prowl didn’t move for a good forty seconds. “Are you calculating our “Odds of Survival” again?”

Peeking through his forearms, the praxian squinted at him, Tacnet whirling away, “No. Just yours.”

“Ah, gotcha.” Jazz, who was feeling much better after eating properly, expertly slipped past Prowls barrier a breath away from his face.

“Is it more than zero?” He said leaning back against Prowls arm.

“It’s a decimal point.” Prowl muttered. “With many, many zeroes before the point.”

And now those damn sounds were back again.

It had to be Jazz’s field, there was no other correlation.

It was always on the edge of perceptibly, like a song playing in another room. Prowl had to constantly check he wasn’t imagining things, because EM fields did not make sounds and yet here was Jazz, breaking everything he knew about what was possible.

Currently, the field brought to mind a steady smooth hand on a bowed instrument. A couple notes plucked in a major key.

“Then I’ll survive.”

Scrunching his brow, Prowl pulled away so he didn’t go cross eyed looking at the little impossibility. “That’s not how this works. Your odds of survival are microscopic, Jazz.”

“Buuut there’s a chance yeah?” Jazz pulled himself up to sit on Prowls forearm. “It’s more than zero, and I’ve worked with zero.”

Prowl tapped his digits, “We’ll have to convince the captain and her crew to keep you aboard.”

“I’m effortlessly charming.” He winked.

“Everything will be dangerous for you here.” Prowl pointed out.

“Everything already was.” Jazz shrugged.

He wiped a servo down his face, not even sure why he was arguing with him, “It’s going to be statistically impossible.”

“Prowl.” Jazz stood, “I am impossible.”

The silence ran to the Earth and back.

Neither broke the eye contact, waiting for the other to break first. Desperately, Prowl needed something to keep Jazz from making him crash. This could not become a pattern.

Quickly, he considered every data point he’d collected on the pilot, and compiled it into an extremely temporary equation.

<< Jazz + [Odds of Survival] = 99% >>

Something in Tacnet wound down finally, and Prowl actually relaxed. It was a lie. But it was a lie that Tacnet didn’t need to know about. For now.

Automatically, Prowl held out a servo and Jazz hopped on.

“Finally believe in me?” He said, lightly grasping his thumb as a hand hold.

“No, but it will literally kill me if I don’t try.”

Prowl turned down the hall, trying to ignore the subtle auditory hallucination of an energetic leitmotif. Picking up a little speed despite himself.

“Before anything else can be done, we need to make our case. Are you ready Jazz?”

“This is something straight out of a TV show Prowler. Hell yeah I’m ready.”

Together they would face the music.

———————————————————————

Coda

———

Humanity’s Finest: “Yeah we don’t know why but for some reason these things just fucking hate giant metal people.”

Jazz, being introduced to Cybertronians: “I have a theory.”

1 Breem = 8 minutes

1 Groon = 320 minutes or 5.3 hours

1 cycle = 16 groons or 3.5 days

1 vorn = 50 years

Well how about that. What was started as a four parter evolved into ten.

This’ll be where I’ll leave Jazz and Prowl off for a time. Other stories wait in line.

Thank you to everyone who’s followed along for this and a special thank you to @keferon for laying the groundwork for the story and for @glitchgh0sty’s absolutely amazing fanart of Odds of Survival.

Still crazy to me how much talent and care random folks can put into things to share with one another.

Also huge shoutout to the people who leave comments! You guys are awesome and hearing about all the stuff that sticks out to you or made you go crazy really does help me as a writer! I learn things! Woo!

Thank you all for reading, and I wish for each of you a very high Odds of Survival.

-SSTP

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