#Chief Engineer's Office

[testormblog]

Going Nowhere

Most children strive to grow up quickly to escape their boundaries.  I was no different.  Now sixteen years old, I was considered an adult.  Alas, the reverse happened to me; I became a prisoner not an escapee!  My life had become wretched and I was powerless to change it for the next five years of my indenture after my probation period finished.

Every day, I sweated at the Ipswich Workshops then lined up to required technical classes at the Ipswich Technical College, three nights a week and for a half day.  At least this meant I avoided the old codgers at the boarding house.  I only heard their loud snores as I flopped on to my lumpy bed, exhausted and utterly miserable.  Besides, I missed my beloved birds and had left them in Dad’s care.  I hated where I lived but couldn’t afford anywhere else.  My landlord demanded nearly all my wages.  He left me a few measly shillings for my train fares.

One shouldn’t give up hope.  I valiantly tried to keep it and searched for a chance to roll my dice of fortune again.  I read the available jobs listed in the Railway’s Workers Weekly when nobody was looking.  A couple months after I had started work, the Chief Engineer’s Office listed four cadet (apprentice) draftsman positions in Brisbane.  I thought one of these might be an escape route and quickly applied.  My Railway exam ranking secured me an interview and a position.  The top ranked guy scored another.  We virtually evaporated from the Workshops and reappeared in a huge drafting room of hundreds of desks in Brisbane City.  I never returned except once some sixty years later after the hell had met its own demise.

I felt like a jailbird released from prison, and its stepping stone the half way house, into better society.  I didn’t realise that life would be tough on the other side too.  I soon discovered that my electrical studies weren’t useful to a cadet draftsman.  The other cadets were enrolled in draftsman courses or engineering studies.  Thus, I needed to switch.  The Queensland Central Technical College had recently reviewed its engineering subjects, updated them for modern practices and rolled out its 1960 Engineering Diploma, a seven year course.  I decided to do it.  I started three months behind and had lots of catching up to do.  Alas, I was time poor.  I sat in the classroom from six to nine four nights a week and for a half day on Saturday.  On the nights, I waited a couple hours on a draughty train platform for the ‘Midnight Horror.  At 1 am, I staggered up the road to home for a woeful three hours sleep.  I was close to being a dead man walking.  One night, at 2 am, the Bethania Station Master on duty, fortunately one of Dad’s mates, found me asleep in a train carriage laid over for the night.  His daughter, who lived closer to the City, took pity on me and took me in.  I kept my head down at work and college.  I miraculously survived and passed every engineering subject that year.

At work, I went from a place where men swore in English to one where they swore in foreign languages, predominantly Russian.  Whilst the bosses were Australian, many workers were White Russians, post war escapees from Red Russia.  These men chain smoked foul smelling pipes and cigarettes.  A metre thick smoke cloud hovered over everybody, constrained above by the ceiling.  The room was a death cell whether one smoked or not.  Doubtlessly, a lad looking for acceptance by his colleagues, I smoked a few packets of Camel and Rothmans.  I had tasted nothing as disgusting as these cheap cigarettes.  Thus, I didn’t smoke much outside the office nor could I afford to, thus I evaded this addiction.

Everybody in the Chief Engineer’s Office worked silently and diligently unlike their brethren in the Workshops.  No pranks happened here!  I was eager to learn whatever I could.  However, nobody sought to teach me anything.  The men were immersed in whatever segment of infrastructure they had to design.  Being a cadet, they trusted me to do no more than trace their pencil designs on cartridge paper on to blue linen in Indian ink.  These tracings became the blue prints for the manufacture of componentry.  I traced various shaped steel components, scaled to dimensions, for the foundry at the Workshops.  The task was monotonous and tedious due to the careful penmanship required.  For two and a half years, I never drew up any of my own design work.  Nor did my pitiful wage of less than ten pound a week increase.  I earnt marginally less at the Workshops.  Heavens, I could have earnt more birding.

The office bell clanged eight times a day, four times to start work and four times to stop it.  It first rang at 9 am and last at 5.06 pm.  It ruled my day!  As required, I signed on in a book at these times irrespective of when I really began or finished.  The 5.06 pm finishing time clashed with the South Brisbane train timetable.  In those days, no rail bridge connected Brisbane City to the Southside.  On my college free nights, I had fourteen minutes to sprint through the street crowd, down Adelaide Street to George Street then across the old Victoria Bridge, a kilometre and a half.  Missing the train meant at least a half hour wait for the next.  I, being a runner, usually beat the train by a minute if I wasn’t queued to sign the book.  Most of the men in the same predicament signed the book the following morning.  So, I did too.

One night, the Chief Clerk, a power hungry snake, laid a trap for us.  He worded up his team beforehand though.  Somebody leaked his intention but didn’t tell me nor another guy about it.  The next morning, the snake frog marched us two into the Chief Engineer’s office, a suite so palatial it widened my eyes.  I cast my eyes to the floor and stood stone still whilst the Chief Engineer harshly berated us for disobeying the Railway rule.

As my mother unwittingly taught me, take the heat, retreat yet note the score as outstanding and wait for the day to complete.  The chance would come.

Years into the future, a colleague would eventually be promoted to the Railway’s Chief Engineer.  We’d meet again across a desk with me employed by another organisation.  Between us would be a tender for a new rail bridge.  He’d fail to check the document thoroughly.  My allegiance would be to my then employer not to him nor the Railway.  I’d remember the timebook incident and my misery working for the Railway.  That day, the Railway would pay dearly, hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth.

That office bell began to sound like the dead knell to me.  Older cadets were resigning.  Then the guy, who began with me, snagged a role with an oil company.  I knew I had to ‘write on the wall’ too despite my indenture and my Railway blood.

[fauvester]

yeah who up putting their nicktoons in their star trek

[bumblingbabooshka]

Hey, Star Trek Writers... -taps the glass-

[themalhambird]

so I made this post, @celebrimbor-apologist made these fantastic tags:

#Just#I could imagine Sauron as a khan-esque guy#He's angry at the federation#He hides in plain sight#Manipulates mansplains manslaughters his way through it#While he's on the ship#Adar sees right through him because#Hes been with the capitalist assholes who fucked up his uruks#But by that time Adar is still kinda new on the ship so he isn't as trusted#That's what makes it all the more tragic that sauron gets along well with Celebrimbor#Because Adar and him got along well#Please no Tyelpe dying here please#But dramatic “we were all fooled” scene in sickbay pls#ALSO#Navigations Officer Camnir#Vorohil at the weapons console

and, well. My hand slipped...

Without any discussion amongst themselves, the other senior officers have fallen into pattern, keeping vigil at Celebrimbor’s side in the medbay in shifts. It feels important that somebody is there when he wakes up, and well. The Lindon has spent the better part of a month in enemy control, dead in space, with engineering and the bridge both sealed off, life support functions cutting in and out and explosions buffeting the ship at random moments. The medical officers have their hands full. 

“Ga…lad..riel?”

It’s been three days. It’s early- or late, depending on perspective- and it’s Galadriel’s turn on Celebrimbor-Watch. She had been just about half way to sleep herself. Now, she snaps awake– a bright smile splitting her face at the sight of Celebrimbor’s sharp, bright eyes.  “Hello you.”

“Did…it work..? The transporter?” 

“It worked.” 

Celebrimbor exhales with relief, eyes shutting for a moment. The grief and distress on his face eases briefly, and then his eyes fly wide open once more. He sits up, moving as though he intends to swing out of the bed and start running. “The warp drive. The core, it’s going- the system wasn’t made to handle- she’s going to blow-”

“No, no- Celebrimbor, you fixed it.” Galadriel grabs his arms and holds him steady, noting in the back of her mind how he flinches and whimpers at the contact but not wanting to let go until she’s sure he’s not going to do himself further injury by trying to get up. “Remember,” she says, fixing her steady eyes on his. “Remember? You rigged up a transporter beam and blasted Sauron off the ship. You got control back to the bridge and dropped the shields cutting engineering off. Adar came down– just him, in case the air was too toxic, the deck too unstable or dark for anybody else. Adar found you, and you told him about the transporter, and the threat to the warp drive. You fixed it together, and then you collapsed. Adar carried you from engineering to the medbay, and you’ve been here for three days.”

“Three days?” Celebrimbor repeats. Slowly, he lets Galadriel sink him back down against the pillows. The first officer nods. 

“Three days,” she confirms. “You’re doing well, and the Lindon-” she pauses. Frankly, the Lindon is a mess. Whatever Sauron was trying to achieve, the engine deck has been well and truly cannibalised. So bad is it that the engineers- having secured life support, and repaired any immediately threatening damage, are reluctant to touch anything else until Celebrimbor is able to take a look first. Gil-galad has sent distress signals not only on Star Fleet channels, but on Vulcan, Klingon- even Ferengi frequencies. In an uncharacteristic display of temper and bloodlust Elrond has declared that if they ever manage to figure out what random coordinates Celebrimbor sent Sauron to, he’s going to pull the Maia’s guts out and rearrange them and see how he likes it. “The Lindon is stable,” she says, “and in no immediate danger.”

“Oh. That is…that is good.” Celebrimbor’s eyes drift closed again. Federation medicine had vanquished whatever burns, cuts, and bruises naturally rapid Feonorian healing hadn’t already taken care of (and it worries everyone that Celebrimbor both had wounds old enough that they should have already healed themselves- and that the true extent of how badly hurt their friend has been injured in the last month is, as of yet, unclear). Nevertheless,  the Engineer’s captivity- and, Galadriel supposes, his ordeal in the run up to it, the period where there had been a growing concern that he was experiencing a psychological breakdown- has left him gaunt- visibly ashen and exhausted. He swallows, and seems to be steeling himself for something. When he speaks again, he doesn’t open his eyes, and though he seems to be doing his best to lie very, very still, there’s a faint tremor in his fingers. 

“Galadriel?”

“Yes?”

“Will you…will you please tell Captain Gil-galad that I…am ready to be escorted to the brig at…his pleasure? I will…co-operate fully. With a court martial. Whatever charges he wishes to bring, I’ll not contest them.” he turns his face toward her and when his eyes open again, they are brimming with tears. “If he will see me, I should like to apologize. I neither expect nor deserve forgiveness, but even so, I am sorry. For my foolishness. For not..being strong enough…” A tear spills down , dripping onto the bridge of his nose. Galadriel’s own eyes prickle. 

“Celebrimbor.” She moves her hand to just above his, and when he doesn’t draw away, gently takes it. His fingers are colder than they should be. “Of course Gil-galad will see you- but because you are his friend and he is concerned, not because he is angry. There is no question of a Court Martial- you saved the ship-”

“After I endangered it in the first place-”

“After your attempts at warning of the danger were ignored-”

“The danger that was all my fault-”

“Control of the ship was seized by a hostile alien force who manipulated and coerced you into doing its’ bidding,” Galadriel says. “Celebrimbor, we all thought Annatar was who he claimed to be. That you saw through it at all…well. You remember when he was with us as Halbrand. And I nearly punched Gil-galad in the face?”

Celebrimbor frowns. “...You did punch Gil-galad in the face. And then Gil-galad punched you back. You both ended up rolling around on the floor, pulling each other’s hair.”

“Not according to any of the official logs,” Galadriel says archly “According to the official logs, we only nearly came to blows.  Only you, Gil-galad, and I know different-”

“Elrond knows.”

“Elrond knows everything, Elrond doesn’t count.”

They lapse into silence for a while. It’s not uncomfortable. “The point is,” Galadriel says at last. “If he hadn’t left us when he did, the first time, I don’t know that he wouldn’t have persuaded me to mutiny. And it took us weeks of going back over everything when we found out he wasn’t who he had claimed, piercing it all together, that we even realised he had been manipulating us. And then, when we were explicitly watching for him…he did it all over again. We were all fooled. Alright, Adar was suspicious,” she acknowledges, a little begrudgingly. “But all that meant was that Annatar- Sauron- persuaded me to lock out his access to the bridge. To be fair, I’m still not sure how he had access in the first place-”

The tips of Celebrimbor’s ears turn pink. “That- ah. That may have been me. A flux coil blew in one of the helm’s navigation controls during the party for Disa and Durin’s anniversary. It was a downshift, no one was on the bridge, and everyone else was having such fun, I didn’t want to drag them away to spend half an hour standing about watching me in case I somehow managed to give myself a plasma–shock doing repairs so routine I could manage in the dark standing backward and with one hand tied behind my back. And, well, I got distracted by- that doesn’t matter- and I forgot to revoke it, and no one seemed to mind his coming and going as he pleased until…well. Until Annatar.”

“The point is- and maybe don’t tell anyone else you gave a non-Federation civilian you met when he abducted you the security clearance to get onto the bridge,” Galdriel interjects into her own sentence, the image of an external investigation into this whole mess suddenly flashing before her eyes. “The point is, we were all fooled, Celebrimbor. Twice over.” she squeezes his hand. “You have nothing to blame yourself for, no apologies you need to make.”

“Nevertheless,” Celebrimbor says. He gives her hand a hesitant squeeze in return. “I will make them. Will you tell the Captain I wish to see him, when it’s convenient?”

“I’ll tell him you’re awake, and he’ll come straight down.” Galadriel stands, leaning forward to drop a gentle kiss on his forehead on her way up. “I’d better fetch you a doctor, to, just to give you another look over now you’re awake.” She lets go of his hand, but lingers long enough to give him a last smile. “It’s good to see you, my friend. It is so very good to see you.”

[baylardian-1]

scrapping these haha i just have a surplus of peppa/jj stuff im sitting on rn lol

been thinking about them working on a ship together

[walkman-cat]

could I request something Davey?

ive had my star trek au on the brain wbwbwb so here’s davey in the au (he’s taking spot the cat off the bridge) (im so sorry it’s not regular davey wbwbw)

[marellaredeks]

Okay, Keepers Star Trek AU

Sophie is a half Vulcan half human baby found as the sole survivor on a Maquis ship. Sophie is raised by the human Foster family, professors at Star Fleet academy. When at twelve Sophie is in a terrible shuttle accident that claims the life of her parents and places her younger sister in a coma , Sophie is taken in by former Star Fleet Xenobiologis Grady Ruewen and former Star Fleet Commander Edaline Ruewen. Before Sophie has a chance to adjust to her new life Grady and Edaline are called back by Starfleet to serve aboard the USS Everglen, captained by their friend, and Edaline's former subordinate, Alden Vacker, SPACE THE FINAL FRONTIER

[thegremlinprince]

Starting a conversation on discord about Star Trek Muppets, and getting my friends in on it isn't how I expected the day to go, but it's certainly a good thing.

Ufhdhd thinking about a tribbles episode-

[biologicalfandomhippo]

Yeah, more material featuring scientists needs to include that! I'm a biologist. My understanding of chemistry begins and ends at what is applicable to my life, and the general chemistry concepts that make biology happen. I can sorta figure how a plane works but I'm getting there by way of how birds work and I am probably wrong. Even between subdisciplines, I know more population stats stuff than I do how organs work.

This is also a good thing for adding comedy, drama, and cutting out/'dumbing down' science explanations in sci-fi. You don't need to explain your science or world building if the character doesn't know it.

People who don’t want to read The Martian in case the science is too complicated should be informed that it contains the lines “The best way to store the ingredients of water is to make them be water”, “It is of course dangerous to set off an explosive device on a spacecraft”, and “If I cut a hole in the wall of the hab, the air won’t stay inside any more”.

[cdraustraliawriters]

Chief Information Officer

The Chief Information Officer ANZSCO 135111, develops and manages ICT policies to ensure that the technology infrastructure aligns with organizational goals.

✅Skill Requirements:

Skill Level: Level 1

Assessment Authority: Australian Computer Society (ACS)

Education: A bachelor's degree is typically required; relevant experience may not substitute for formal education.

✅Visa Information:

Eligible for Skilled Nominated 190 visa or Skilled Regional Nominated 489 visa under the Short-term Skilled Occupation List (STSOL). If not in demand by states or territories, employer sponsorship may be necessary.

Unit Group: 2632 ICT Support and Test Engineers

Includes roles like ICT Project Manager and ICT Managers (NEC).

✅Responsibilities:

Analyze organizational information needs.

Develop and implement ICT strategies and policies.

Coordinate purchasing, usage, and training of ICT tools.

Set goals for system development and maintenance.

✅English Language Requirements:

Minimum IELTS score: 6 (L, R, W), 7 (Speaking), 7 overall

Other accepted tests include OET, TOEFL iBT, and PTE Academic.

Why Choose CDR Australia Writers?

CDR Australia Writer specializes in crafting CDR reports that comply with Engineers Australia standards. With a 100% success rate, they ensure high-quality, original submissions, providing support for skilled migration to Australia.

[sageglobalresponse]

Top 10 highest paying jobs in the world 2024

Here is a list of the top 10 highest-paying jobs around the globe

The pursuit of lucrative careers often drives professional aspirations. With technological advancements and globalization reshaping industries, some professions command exceptional salaries that reflect their critical importance and specialized skill sets.

Whether you’re a seasoned professional seeking a career shift or a recent graduate planning your future, understanding which roles offer the highest financial rewards can guide your career decisions.

In this article, we’ll explore the top 10 highest-paying jobs around the globe, per report from Nexford.

1. Cardiologist

Role: Specializes in diagnosing and treating cardiovascular diseases.

Requirements: Bachelor’s degree; medical school; residency in internal medicine; board certification in cardiology.

Average Salary: $324,760

2. Surgeon

Role: Performs surgical procedures to treat diseases and conditions.

Requirements: Bachelor’s degree; medical school; residency; medical license; board certification.

Average Salary: $297,851

3. Psychiatrist

Role: Specializes in diagnosing and treating mental illnesses and emotional disorders.

Requirements: Bachelor’s degree; medical school; residency in psychiatry; medical license; board certification.

Average Salary: $255,812

4. Chief Executive Officer (CEO)

Role: Oversees company operations, makes major corporate decisions, and communicates with the board of directors.

Requirements: Bachelor’s degree in business or related field; advanced degrees like an MBA; extensive experience in leadership and strategic planning.

Average Salary: $197,747

5. Senior Software Engineer

Role: Designs, implements, and maintains complex software systems.

Requirements: Bachelor’s degree in computer science; expertise in programming languages like Java, Python, or C++; experience with frameworks and version control systems.

Average Salary: $194,220

6. Corporate Lawyer

Role: Provides legal advice and services to businesses on various legal matters.

Requirements: Bachelor’s degree; law school and JD; bar exam; specialization in corporate law.

Average Salary: $149,68

7. Investment Banker

Role: Facilitates financial transactions, advises on strategies, manages mergers, and raises capital.

Requirements: Bachelor’s degree in finance or related field; securities licenses; understanding of financial markets; certifications like CFA recommended.

Average Salary: $144,633

8. Cloud Architect

Role: Designs and manages cloud computing architecture.

Requirements: Bachelor’s degree in computer science or IT; relevant certifications (e.g., AWS, Azure); skills in IaC tools and cloud networking.

Average Salary: $144,000

9. Internet of Things (IoT) Architect

Role: Designs and implements the architecture of IoT systems.

Requirements: Bachelor’s degree in computer science or related field; proficiency in programming languages; knowledge of networking, embedded systems, and IoT security.

Average Salary: $131,646

10. Petroleum Engineer

Role: Specializes in the exploration, extraction, and production of oil and natural gas.

Requirements: Bachelor’s degree in petroleum engineering or related field; internships; knowledge of programming and simulation tools; certification.

Average Salary: $130,523

[jcmarchi]

“Pathways to Invention” documentary debuts on PBS, streaming

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/pathways-to-invention-documentary-debuts-on-pbs-streaming/

“Pathways to Invention” documentary debuts on PBS, streaming

The Lemelson-MIT Program has announced the national debut of an award-winning documentary that celebrates invention: American Public Television (APT) presents “Pathways to Invention,” a film that follows modern inventors of diverse backgrounds as they develop life-changing innovations.

Produced by Maaia Mark Productions in association with the Lemelson-MIT Program with funding from The Lemelson Foundation, MIT’s School of Engineering, and the University of California at Berkeley, the 60-minute special explores whether inventors are born or made through a series of engaging, up-close profiles while examining the tangible impact they’re making across a variety of disciplines including biotech, medical diagnostics and prosthetics, sustainable agriculture, food production, software development, and materials science. The inventors featured in the documentary are all recipients of the Lemelson-MIT Student Prize. The program premieres this month on PBS stations nationwide, available for streaming in the PBS app and on PBS.org as well as on WORLD. The film will also air on WGBH 44 Boston on July 7 and 19. A companion website with related learning resources for all ages launched May 1. 

“Pathways to Invention” explores the lives of 12 inventors overcoming obstacles to achieve success in cities across the country. Each shares an insightful perspective inspiring audiences to discover their own pathways to realizing their goals.

Journeying through the workshops, garages, laboratories, and offices of these entrepreneurs, the film considers what it really means to take “leaps of faith” as the accomplished innovators present a realistic approach of persevering through overwhelming odds and obstacles, taking risks, and inevitably experiencing failures before achieving success and discovering that the essence of invention is collaboration and lifelong learning.

“We all have the power in our minds and hands to shape the world,” says Levi C. Maaia, the film’s director, a former high school educator, and co-founder of Maaia Mark Productions with Noah Mark, a veteran showrunner and executive producer who has produced numerous series for a who’s who of major broadcast/cable networks and video streaming platforms. “The goal of ‘Pathways to Invention’ is to inspire others to think about new ways they can create solutions to benefit their own lives and humanity at large.”

Together, Maaia and Mark have collected more than a dozen awards for the film. At the Los Angeles Independent Film Festival Awards in summer 2022, it was recognized as the season’s best documentary feature, Mark and Maaia as best producers, Maaia as best director of a documentary feature, and composers Michael Mark and Jon Cobert for best original musical score.

The film seamlessly weaves together the distinctive paths of each inventor working to achieve similarly meaningful results. They include:

David Moinina Sengeh SM ’12, PhD ’16, chief innovation officer and minister of basic and senior secondary education for the government of Sierra Leone, who witnessed those around him struggle with ill-fitting prosthetics that were too uncomfortable to wear, and designed next-generation wearable mechanical interfaces that improve comfort for amputees.

Nicole Black, a materials scientist whose experience growing up as a little girl grappling with hearing loss due to a perforated eardrum led to the groundbreaking formulation of a 3D-printed material — a near-perfect scaffold for the regrowth of human eardrum tissue.

Paige Balcom, a Fulbright Scholar visiting Uganda who was inspired to develop a small-scale community recycling process in Gulu employing street-connected, at-risk youth. This supposedly “impossible” initiative was the genesis of Takataka Plastics, where Paige now serves as co-founder and is currently working to expand to five towns across Uganda, and eventually scale to other developing countries.

Geoff von Maltzahn ’03, PhD ’10, who, after becoming hyper-focused during college with the programmability of living things at a microscopic level, has raised hundreds of millions of dollars to fund groundbreaking biotech and life sciences research. Through the management of microbes and the DNA programming of organisms big and small, von Maltzahn and his colleagues are focused on eliminating plant pesticides, creating drought-tolerant crops, sequestering carbon, and eliminating disease.

Championing the idea that most inventors do not emulate the storied life of Thomas Edison or follow the financial trajectory of Elon Musk, “Pathways to Invention” brings a relatable aspect to the journeys of each inventor.

Stephanie Couch, executive director of The Lemelson-MIT Program, states that “the key takeaway we’d like for viewers to keep in mind is that it’s never too late — or too early — to get on the pathway to invention. We are all aware of problems in our daily lives and we have what it takes to become collaborative problem-solvers and invent solutions that can make the world a better place.”

“We all are born curious; we all like to study the world. We like to understand it. That’s the innate curiosity that we all have, and sometimes it’s the environmental factors that drive it out of us,” says Josh Siegel, an assistant professor at Michigan State University and inventor whose work focuses on designing platforms for collecting and analyzing vehicle data. “Inventing has taught me to be persistent; inventing has taught me to be creative; inventing has taught me to trust myself as I have never trusted myself before. It’s OK to be imperfect, so long as you’re better than you were. We can invent things, we can invent products, we can invent services. We can create new capabilities; we can create new knowledge. But at the end of the day, what we’re really doing is reinventing ourselves.”

[sabamvm]

Enhancing IT Security: Strategies and Best Practices

Introduction:

In the contemporary digital landscape, where businesses and individuals heavily rely on interconnected systems, ensuring robust IT security is paramount. The exponential growth of cyber threats poses significant challenges to organizations of all sizes, requiring proactive measures to safeguard sensitive data, protect privacy, and maintain operational integrity. This article explores the importance of IT security, key challenges, and effective strategies to fortify digital defenses.

Importance of IT Security:

IT security encompasses a range of measures designed to safeguard digital assets, including hardware, software, networks, and data, against unauthorized access, breaches, and cyber attacks. The consequences of security breaches can be severe, leading to financial losses, reputational damage, legal liabilities, and compromised customer trust.

With the proliferation of connected devices, cloud services, and sophisticated attack vectors, the attack surface has expanded, making organizations more vulnerable to exploitation. Consequently, investing in robust IT security frameworks is essential to mitigate risks and ensure business continuity in an increasingly volatile threat landscape.

 Key Challenges in IT Security:

Despite advancements in security technologies, organizations face several challenges in maintaining effective IT security:

1. **Sophisticated Threat Landscape**: Cybercriminals leverage advanced techniques such as malware, ransomware, phishing, and social engineering to infiltrate networks and compromise systems.

2. **Insider Threats**: Malicious insiders or negligent employees pose significant risks to organizational security by intentionally or inadvertently disclosing sensitive information or engaging in malicious activities.

3. **Compliance Requirements**: Organizations must adhere to regulatory mandates and industry standards governing data protection and privacy, such as GDPR, HIPAA, PCI DSS, and SOX, which impose stringent requirements and penalties for non-compliance.

4. **Resource Constraints**: Limited budgets, shortage of skilled cybersecurity professionals, and competing priorities often constrain organizations' ability to implement comprehensive security measures.

Strategies for Enhancing IT Security:

To address these challenges and bolster IT security posture, organizations can adopt the following strategies and best practices:

1. **Risk Assessment and Management**: Conduct regular risk assessments to identify potential threats, vulnerabilities, and impact on critical assets. Develop risk management frameworks to prioritize mitigation efforts and allocate resources effectively.

2. **Implement Multi-Layered Defense Mechanisms**: Deploy a multi-layered approach to security, combining preventive, detective, and corrective controls at the network, host, and application layers. This includes firewalls, intrusion detection systems (IDS), antivirus software, endpoint protection, encryption, and access controls.

3. **User Education and Awareness**: Foster a culture of security awareness among employees through training programs, workshops, and simulated phishing exercises. Educate users about common threats, phishing scams, password hygiene, and best practices for safeguarding sensitive information.

4. **Regular Software Patching and Updates**: Keep software, operating systems, and firmware up-to-date with the latest security patches and fixes to address known vulnerabilities and mitigate potential exploitation by attackers.

5. **Secure Configuration Management**: Harden system configurations, disable unnecessary services, and enforce least privilege access controls to minimize the attack surface and limit the impact of security incidents.

6. **Data Encryption and Privacy Controls**: Encrypt sensitive data both in transit and at rest using robust encryption algorithms and cryptographic protocols. Implement data loss prevention (DLP) solutions and access controls to prevent unauthorized disclosure or misuse of confidential information.

7. **Incident Response and Contingency Planning**: Develop incident response plans outlining procedures for detecting, analyzing, and responding to security incidents promptly. Establish communication channels, escalation paths, and recovery strategies to minimize downtime and restore normal operations.

8. **Continuous Monitoring and Auditing**: Deploy security information and event management (SIEM) solutions to monitor network traffic, detect suspicious activities, and generate real-time alerts. Conduct regular security audits, penetration testing, and vulnerability assessments to identify weaknesses and remediate security gaps proactively.

Conclusion:

In conclusion, prioritizing IT security is imperative for organizations to mitigate cyber risks, protect critical assets, and preserve stakeholder trust in an increasingly interconnected world. By adopting proactive measures, leveraging best practices, and fostering a culture of security awareness, organizations can strengthen their resilience against evolving threats and maintain a competitive edge in today's digital landscape. Remember, in the realm of cybersecurity, vigilance and preparedness are key to staying one step ahead of adversaries and safeguarding the integrity of digital ecosystems.

[regina-cordium]

The problem with this dw au is that now I’m thinking of a Star Trek au, bc that is ultimately the sci-fi show my heart belongs to

[cressidagrey]

Classified Information

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Francesca Howard (Original Character)

Summary:

Liam Lawson tries to flirt with Red Bull’s new CTO.

Turns out, she’s Dr. Francesca Howard.

Also known as Max Verstappen’s wife.

And the mother of his son.

Oops.

Warnings and Notes: 

....Poor Liam is really going through in this.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Liam Lawson liked to think he had good instincts.

They had served him well in his racing career—knowing when to attack, when to defend, when to push and when to back off.

But apparently, those instincts failed him spectacularly the day he walked into the Red Bull factory for his seat fitting and met Francesca Howard for the first time.

He had heard the name before, of course. Everyone in the industry had. Francesca Howard—brilliant, ruthless, and the woman who had taken over as Red Bull Racing’s Chief Technology Officer after Adrian Newey’s departure.

What Liam hadn’t heard, however, was that she was also absolutely stunning.

She stood near the RB21 chassis, tablet in hand, deep in conversation with a few engineers. Her tone was sharp but calm, confident without arrogance, completely in control of every discussion around her.

And, Liam noted, she had a hell of a presence.

He adjusted the sleeves of his hoodie, rolling his shoulders back. He was good with first impressions. No harm in introducing himself, right?

He took one step forward—

And suddenly, he felt a hand grip his arm like a vice.

“Nope.”

Liam turned, startled, to find Gianpiero Lambiase looking at him like he was the biggest idiot to ever walk into the Red Bull garage.

Liam frowned. “What?”

GP sighed heavily, like this was already too much effort. “Don’t do it.”

Liam blinked, confused. “Do what?”

GP nodded toward Francesca. “Whatever you’re about to attempt over there—just don’t.”

Liam scoffed. “I’m literally just introducing myself.”

GP leveled him with a look, looking at him like he had just tried to run slick tires in the rain. “And yet, I’m still telling you not to.”

Liam folded his arms. “Why? Is she scary?”

GP snorted. “Not to me.”

That wasn’t an answer.

Liam narrowed his eyes. “Alright, what’s the deal?”

GP sighed again, rubbing his temples like he was too old for this conversation. “Lawson. I know you think you’ve got game. But trust me—not this time.”

Liam tilted his head. “What, is she taken or something?”

GP didn’t even bother looking up from his laptop as he muttered, “Something like that.”

Liam hesitated, suddenly feeling like he was missing some critical piece of information.

But then he shook it off. How bad could it be?

“C’mon,” he said. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

GP sighed again, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “rookies never learn” before shaking his head.

“Fine,” he said, stepping back and folding his arms. “Do what you want. But when this backfires, I’m not saving you.”

Liam rolled his eyes and kept walking.

How bad could it possibly be?

At worst, Francesca Howard would roll her eyes at him and shut him down politely. No harm done.

So he straightened his shoulders and walked over.

He liked to think he was pretty smooth, after all. 

Not in an arrogant way—just in a self-aware way. He had a certain charm, an easy confidence. People liked him. Women liked him.

What was the worst that could happen? Mild embarrassment? He’d survive.

So he walked up to Francesca Howard, clearing his throat as she studied something on her tablet.

“Miss Howard,” he greeted smoothly, flashing his most easygoing grin. “Liam Lawson. Figured it was time we officially met.”

She looked up, brow arching slightly, her expression somewhere between amused and unimpressed.

“Dr. Howard.”

Liam blinked. “Huh?”

Francesca tilted her head. “I have two doctorates. If you’re going to address me formally, at least get it right. Otherwise, you can just call me Francesca. It’s my name.”

Liam froze.

Two doctorates?

Two?!

He cleared his throat. “Uh. Right. Dr. Howard.”

Her smirk did not help his sudden feeling of impending doom.

Behind him, GP sighed loudly.

Liam could feel himself slipping.

Not in a physically tripping over a curb way—though, honestly, he wouldn’t put that past himself at this point—but in a mentally trying to keep up and failing spectacularly way.

Francesca Howard was too smart for her own good.

Or, rather, too smart for his own good.

And she knew it.

“So,” he started, recovering as best as he could. “Two doctorates, huh?”

She gave him a patient smile, the kind teachers gave students who had just asked an embarrassingly obvious question.

“Yes,” she said. “One in Aerospace Engineering, one in Physics.”

Liam nodded slowly, stalling for time.

“Right. Cool. Just… y’know, casual, two whole doctorates.”

Francesca smirked. “You only need one to replace Adrian Newey. I like to be thorough.”

GP, still lurking nearby, snorted loudly.

Liam ignored him.

“Well,” Liam said, shifting his weight, trying to regain some sense of control in this conversation, “I guess it’s a good thing we have the best of the best in charge.”

Francesca hummed, looking entirely unaffected. “I know.”

Liam blinked. “You know?”

“Yes.”

“No hesitation?”

Francesca shrugged. “Why would I hesitate? It’s a fact.”

Liam opened his mouth, then shut it.

Then opened it again.

Then shut it again.

There was no winning here.

Behind him, GP sighed loudly, shaking his head. “I told you, kid.”

Liam Lawson had officially lost control of this conversation.

Dr. Francesca Howard—too smart for her own good, owner of two doctorates, and completely unbothered by his attempts to charm her—had thoroughly handed him his ass in a simple conversation.

And now, he was trying to figure out how to exit gracefully without admitting defeat.

(There was no graceful exit. He was so screwed.)

But before he could say anything else, a new voice cut in.

“You’re making this too easy for her.”

Liam turned—only to freeze at the sight of Max Verstappen walking into the garage.

With a baby in his arms.

Liam blinked. What.

Francesca’s expression instantly softened, her entire demeanor shifting as she abandoned whatever she had been working on and zeroed in on Max and the baby.

“There’s my boy,” she murmured, ignoring Liam completely as she reached for the baby, lifting him easily into her arms.

Liam blinked. What the hell was happening?

The baby—who had Verstappen blue eyes and a suspiciously familiar frown—giggled, grabbing at Francesca’s hair. 

“Did Papa bring you to see me?” she cooed, pressing a kiss to his tiny forehead.

Max, standing there with all the smugness of a four-time World Champion who knew exactly what he was doing, crossed his arms. “He missed you. You’ve been working too much.”

Francesca hummed, rocking the baby slightly. “That’s because someone keeps breaking parts, Maxie.”

Max did not look even a little guilty.

Liam, meanwhile, was still trying to process the absolute madness unfolding in front of him.

Papa?!

My boy?!

MAXIE?!

“What,” Liam said, voice slightly higher than normal, “the actual hell is going on?”

Francesca turned to him, just now remembering he existed.

She sighed but lifted her left hand, flashing a wedding band so obvious that Liam genuinely hated himself for not noticing it earlier.

Liam’s entire brain short-circuited. 

“We’re married,” she said casually. 

Liam choked.

“You’re—WHAT?!”“You’re—” He pointed between them. “Since when?!”

Max grinned, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “A while now.”

Liam turned back to GP, who looked entirely unshocked by this development.

GP sighed. “Tried to warn you.”

Liam needed a second.

No—he needed several seconds.

Because nothing about this situation made sense.

Dr. Francesca Howard—Red Bull’s new Chief Technology Officer, terrifyingly smart, and the owner of two doctorates—was married to Max Verstappen.

And, apparently, they had a whole baby together.

A whole baby.

Liam had spent months hearing rumors about who would replace Adrian Newey. He’d even done his research—looked into Francesca’s background, her achievements, the way she was basically a walking encyclopedia of aerodynamics and engineering.

But nowhere in his research had it said, Oh, by the way, she’s married to a four-time World Champion.

And definitely nowhere had it mentioned, They have a baby together, too.

Liam opened his mouth, then shut it. Then opened it again.

Then shut it.

Francesca, still holding the baby like he was the only thing in the world that mattered, raised an eyebrow. “You okay, Lawson?”

Liam pointed between her and Max, looking vaguely like he was on the verge of a breakdown.

“You—you—” he sputtered. “This—How did nobody tell me this?!”

Max, clearly enjoying every second of this, shrugged. “We don’t exactly make announcements.”

“You—” Liam gestured wildly at Francesca holding the literal Verstappen baby. “—You have a whole kid together!”

Francesca tilted her head, unimpressed. “Yes, Liam. That’s generally how it works when you’re married.”

Liam let out a strangled noise.

Max chuckled. “You thought you had a chance with her, didn’t you?”

Liam groaned, dragging both hands down his face.

GP, still entirely unshocked, clapped a hand on Liam’s shoulder.

“Lesson learned?” GP asked, smirking.

Liam exhaled sharply, looking so very done with this entire team.

“Right,” he said finally, voice still slightly higher than normal. “So, just to recap—”

He pointed at Max.

“Four-time World Champion, absolute menace on track, king of the grudge-holders.”

Max smirked. “Correct.”

Liam turned to Francesca.

“Chief Technology Officer, too smart for her own good, owner of two doctorates—”

Francesca looked far too amused. “Correct again.”

Then Liam gestured wildly at the baby.

“And now you—together—have a whole child?”

Francesca, unfazed, adjusted the baby against her hip. “Would you prefer we only had half a child?”

Liam let out a deeply pained groan.

Max chuckled. “You’re making this too easy for her.”

Liam ignored him and turned back to GP, who was completely unbothered, like he had seen this exact scenario play out before.

“You knew,” Liam accused.

GP snorted. “Obviously.”

Liam threw his hands in the air. “Does the entire team know?!”

Max shrugged. “The ones who pay attention.”

Liam pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know what? Forget it. I don’t want to know.”

Francesca, still holding the baby like Liam’s existential crisis was just background noise, turned to Max.

“I’m assuming you didn’t just come down here to break the rookie?” she asked dryly.

Max grinned. “No, I wanted to see you. And I think Joshua missed you.”

As if on cue, the baby—Joshua, apparently—made a happy babbling noise and patted Francesca’s face.

Francesca melted. “Oh, my love, I missed you too,” she cooed, kissing his forehead.

Max leaned down and kissed Francesca, quick and familiar, like it was second nature.

Liam immediately looked away.

“Right,” he muttered. “Nope. That’s enough for me today.”

Max pulled away, still looking far too pleased. “You sure? I could tell you how we met.”

Liam pointed aggressively at him. “Don’t. You. Dare.”

Max just laughed.

Liam exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “Okay. Fine. You win.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “We were playing a game?”

“I don’t know, Verstappen,” Liam muttered. “But if we were, you won.”

Francesca, still very much focused on her baby, hummed. “I always win.”

Liam shot GP a pained look. “Does she ever turn it off?”

GP snorted. “Nope.”

Max, smug as ever, leaned in slightly. “She’s always been this way, mate. You just had the misfortune of walking into it.”

Liam groaned. “I’m never gonna live this down, am I?”

Max grinned. “Not a chance.”

GP clapped a hand on Liam’s shoulder. “We’ll let this slide, since you’re new, but you might want to brush up on team dynamics before making a fool of yourself again.”

Francesca, finally tearing her attention away from her son, smirked at him. “You’ve learned an important lesson today, Liam.”

“Oh yeah?” he deadpanned. “What’s that?”

Francesca tilted her head, eyes sharp with amusement. “That I’m completely out of your league.”

Max let out a bark of laughter.

GP clapped a hand on Liam’s shoulder, offering zero comfort. “You’ll be fine, mate. Just... maybe do your homework next time.”

Liam shot him a deeply betrayed look. “You really let me dig my own grave, huh?”

GP shrugged. “I considered warning you. Then I didn’t.”

Liam groaned. “This is actual bullying.”

Francesca, clearly still amused, adjusted Joshua on her hip. “To be fair, you also called me Miss Howard.”

Liam winced.

Yeah. That had been a mistake.

“Right,” he muttered, shaking his head. “My bad, Dr. Howard.”

Max, absolutely no help at all, laughed.

Francesca pressed a kiss to Joshua’s temple before looking back at Liam, her expression turning mockingly sympathetic. “It’s okay, Liam. You’re not the first person to underestimate me.”

Liam groaned again.

“I wasn’t underestimating you,” he muttered. “I was just—” He gestured vaguely. “I don’t know! Trying to be nice!”

Max smirked. “By flirting with my wife?”

Liam turned bright red.

“Okay,” he said quickly, backpedaling so hard he could have reversed an F1 car. “I wasn’t flirting. I was just—” He waved a hand vaguely. “—being polite.”

GP snorted. “Sure, mate. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Liam exhaled deeply.

Francesca, clearly having had her fun, glanced at Max. “I have a meeting soon. Can you take Joshua?”

Max nodded, easily reaching for the baby. “Of course.”

The moment Joshua was in his arms, he lit up, giggling happily as Max bounced him slightly.

Liam watched, still trying to adjust to this absolute fever dream of a reality.

Max Verstappen—the most intense, hyper-focused, emotionally guarded driver on the grid—was a whole dad.

And, somehow, it actually suited him.

Liam shook his head, still slightly dazed. “I need to sit down.”

Max chuckled. “You’ll get used to it.”

Liam seriously doubted that.

Francesca, still smirking, patted his shoulder. “Don’t take it too hard, Liam. You never stood a chance.”

Liam groaned.

Max grinned. “Welcome to Red Bull.”

[sightseertrespasser]

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?”

“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

<- First