August Contest Entry #4 pt. 2
Title: Spark Deep
Rating: R
Universe: G1
Author: asher119
Pairing: Jazz/Prowl
Word Count: 16,410
Things were not going well at the Council.
The Senators and political personnel Prowl and Senator Emberwire were trying to reach out to for back channel negotiations were getting extreme and opposing pressure from the other side as well. Insurgent attacks were increasing in all the cities in the Southern hemisphere, striking against the Autobot forces occupying against the uprisings. Attacks were increasingly violent, the insurgents growing bold and striking against the Autobot soldiers with dramatic attacks of ferocious display, and the Autobot forces responded in kind, viciously cracking down on entire sections of the population. The pressures of the population were skyrocketing, and angry rioters and shouts of fierce rage echoed through the halls of the Council Chamber in Iacon and in the local political offices in the besieged city-states. Despite the few valiant attempts to reach out and broker negotiations across the bitter divide, each cycle that passed seemd to grow ever more grim and futilely hopeless. Prowl’s own feelings on the matter were deeply conflicted, and he and his Senator had spent long hours debating over the fractious contentions tearing through the Chamber, their hemisphere, and the planet itself.
They were trying, though, and Prowl spent long hours plotting and devising the different political strategies they could undertake, depending on which side they eventually ended up joining. Naturally, they currently were operating with both sides, and keeping each side in the dark about that little fact was absolutely paramount. Prowl’s day consisted of much subterfuge and cover up, followed by then trying to uncover all the deception to figure out the actual truth. He felt most Praxian then, in those moments, and it brought a wry smile to his face. Praxus lay south of the planetary equator, and politically had shifted over the megavorns in affiliation between the Northern and Southern political powerhouses of Iacon and Vos. Both developing sides of the brewing storm wanted Praxus to side with them. More numbers meant more legitimacy and more force for change. Thus far, the extreme violence of the Southern hemisphere had spared Praxus from the brunt of the destruction, but politically, Praxus was being shredded in two. No two mechs seemed to agree on anything any longer, and Prowl’s days were overrun with angry arguments and bitter entreaties for negotiations flying across the back channel comms.
He buried his helm in his hands as he slumped over his desk, letting out a loud, tired sigh. The late cycle had grown long, and the summer sunlight stretched out in burnt golden shades across the setting surface of the planet, prismatically striking against the metallic reflective surfaces of Iacon’s cityscape before refracting up into the windows on Prowl’s high-level office. There were moments when he could look outside and see utter normalcy, the parade of life and the natural world of Cybertron rolling forward despite all the frenzied craziness of the world’s mechs.
Unfortunately, Prowl couldn’t put it all out of his processor, and the fear gnawed at his internals with increasing dark worry. Adding to his frustrations, and to the ever increasing complications of his life, were the ceaseless, unrepentant, spark-deep thoughts and yearnings for the mech he had met and touched within the Gardens. Nothing in his entire life had prepared him for the simple profundity of the complete and total rush of his spark’s perfect contentment in that fraction of an astrosecond. He couldn’t explain it, and he couldn’t even try. It was merely one more thing that rested heavy on his processor, and his thoughts flashed between the struggles of the planet, the insurgent attacks, their steadily more difficult attempts to reach out in negotiation to Praxus’ neighbors, and every single painfully shy and difficult moment spent with the mech he knew as Sol.
Every offcycle that orn, after he finally managed to extricate himself from the Council, Prowl would return to the bar where he had met Sol, sitting in his usual perch for joors, far longer than he ever normally stayed for a simple drink. The stool beside him remained empty, though, and the bustle of the bar’s patrons continued around him undisturbed, his presence and the turbid confluence of his thoughts entirely uncared about. He was hoping, and using the furthest stretch of logic he possibly could, that Sol would return, and he’d get a chance for some answers… or simply another moment of that perfect, singular feeling that was consuming his entire being.
The mysterious mech who made Prowl’s world suddenly spin wildly off its axis hadn’t showed his faceplates since their connection in the Gardens, though. Prowl’s hope was fading, his fears and worries increasing, and once more, a quiet understanding deep within was unfolding, an understanding of his deep personal failings and the lack of worth that he was. How could he offer anything to such a mech, anything of fun or value or happiness in life? No matter how particularly profound it had felt, Prowl was certain that he was entirely incapable of being anything special for any mech.
That didn’t stop him from returning to the bar though, and as he slinked out of the Council Chambers and made his way to the downtown wetbar, Prowl knew he had to at least try to find him again. His spark wouldn’t let him stop. The summer heat was burning down onto his plating, and though the sun had set, shimmers of heat mirages wafted from the planet’s surface along the far stretches of the city’s roads.
Unseen at the back of the bar, Jazz hunkered down in the shadows, purposely standing far and away, hidden out of sight. He’d been following Prowl since the moment he’d returned to Iacon, full of disturbing intel and far more calamitous emotions. He had never, not once, felt anything close to what he had felt when he’d touched Prowl, and his first instinct had been one of danger and of harm. He’d reacted near violently, lashing out in self defense, and a bitter, dark corner of his spark whispered to him that that was a sign of how far he had fallen from his fellow Cybertronians. He couldn’t even feel a pleasant feeling without believing it was a hack, an enemy infiltration and distraction.
But then again, that was no mere pleasant feeling, no mere flaring of an energy field. That had penetrated his very soul, striking as a gong deep into the core of his spark, shaking and quaking the foundation of his self. He’d felt a magnetic pull toward Prowl, his spark’s need to be intimately close to Prowl’s, as if it knew secrets that Jazz did not, and the only way to unlock this secret part of his life was to never, ever leave Prowl.
Those thoughts were ridiculous though. Prowl was a target, an enemy, and now, a proven insurgent. Jazz had fled Iacon, returning to Orion Pax’s Column to recover and to perform a far more detailed scan and scrub of his systems, but when he’d arrived, a grim Orion Pax met Jazz with confirmatory information on Prowl’s espionage activities against the Autobots and the Council itself. Mechs in Praxus, influential businessmechs and the heads of institutions, mechs who had risked themselves with taking public positions in the tumultuous hotbed of the insurrection, had vanished. Militia leaders and lines of Autobot supplies and communications protocols had been hacked with information sent from Iacon. Soldiers had disappeared, sometimes violently, and each one was tied in some way to Prowl’s Council Chambers office. A new segment of coded communiqués had been uncovered, unraveled from a sophisticated embedded data coil and snaking out secret information to multiple contacts all over the martial-law-enforced, insurgency-ravaged Southern hemisphere.
Autobot Intelligence had known that someone in the Council Chambers had been smuggling intelligence out, and Prowl had quickly been keyed as the mech responsible. Without hard proof, however, any accusation could become a flash point of rage, especially since the Praxus city-state was still teetering on the edge of allegiance and any action taken against a Praxian by the Autobots, especially with a charge of treason and espionage, could be the one counterweight to turn the insurrection into a full-spread civil war. Now though, they had far more solid proof, and as they decrypted the rest of the newly discovered data coil, Orion Pax was hoping to discover exactly what Prowl had been communicating to the insurgents and where their people and information had vanished to.
Of course, that didn’t take away the very public and ugly problem of charging and arresting a Praxian legislative aide. It would be far more agreeable for Prowl to suffer an untimely accident, one perhaps tragic, and that was what Jazz specialized in. Untimely, tragic accidents.
Jazz was beginning to have the sinking feeling that the true accident here was him. He couldn’t take his optics off of Prowl, sitting at the bar alone, his doorwings slowly slumping downward, and Jazz’s entire being was consumed with disparate, warring emotions. He was a civil war unto himself, his spark divided in bitter feeling. Part of him was furiously angry, his natural allegiance to the Autobots and his own northern home winning over his knowledge of Prowl’s traitorous, hideous actions. A deeper part, also spark-deep but far more primitive, more raw, more carnal in feeling and in emotion, screamed out to go to Prowl, to be near him, to be drawn closer. That part won over the parts of his processor that screamed rationalizations, justifications, and one, tiny, terrible piece of his conscience that asked, “What if Prowl’s right?” What if Jazz was on the wrong side?
Jazz wanted to rip out his processor, banish all his doubts. He wanted to tear out his spark, return to the cold efficiency he had operated with for so long. The world had been black and white, but now, with just one touch, the world was suddenly all blackness, save for one shining, brilliantly white flash point: Prowl.
Prowl, for the first time in his entire life, asked for a second drink. He slid the empty first cube across the bar top disparagingly, his doorwings dropping ever lower. He pushed and pushed away, and then pushed some more, and when he finally wanted something, he had already done a fabulous job of creating such a mess that the actualization was impossible. He supposed that was what he excelled at in life, turning simple things into complex things. Funny though, logical thought was supposed to be his salvation from all of that. Still, no matter what he did, where he turned, pieces of Prowl’s world were coming apart. He hefted his second cube and downed a long swallow of the higher-refined energon. The buzz in his lines was an unwelcome reminder of the Gardens. He rubbed his elbow, the uninvited memory playing forth once more.
When Prowl finally stumbled out of the bar, his thoughts were so clouded, his emotions so dour and depressed, that he didn’t notice he was being followed. Jazz, watching Prowl like a keen turbohawk on the hunt, did. He swore, watching the two bruise sized mechs follow Prowl out of the bar with sly, twisted grins on their faces. Prowl wore his Praxian heritage and upper-class prestigious occupation unconsciously as part of his identity, and it had never occurred to him before, when he would leave before the nastier, grittier elements of the offcycle would emerge for their nightly rituals, to protect himself by changing himself. Now though, as he walked back to his flat in the middle of the off cycle, the denizens of the criminal world took notice of his refined features, his crisp paint, and his impeccable Council Chambers’ identification and Autobot sigil.
Prowl hadn’t gone more than a breem from the bar, halfway to his flat, when the bruisers rushed him from behind. Prowl was stunned, shocked from his maudlin processor’s wanderings, and he cried out in shock as he was thrown against the side of a building roughly. Hands restrained him as another pair wandered over his body, searching for hidden places and packets to conceal important documents, credits, or backdoor medical access to his subspace. Prowl jerked, trying to be free, but he was small compared to the two, and they easily restrained him with flashing, dark optics and guttural, husky laughs, twisting his arms and back against the metal framework. Prowl’s doorwings flared with pain, and he gritted his denta as he grunted and struggled against their restraint.
The bruisers were growing frustrated by the time they realized that for all of Prowl’s refinement, he carried very little on him in the way of value. He was a waste of their time, and neither of them appreciated that. The uglier of the two, though it was debatable, reared back, preparing to strike at Prowl with a vicious blow to his face as the other mech kept a fierce, tight hold on Prowl’s body, one hand beginning to twist at a delicate doorwing.
Softly illuminated and silent laser shots streaked through the night streets, snapping into the backplates of the two mechs and grazing just past their cheek arches. Both mechs cried out in pain, whirling around in defiance, but the shooter remained obscure and hidden. Another series of shots flared out silently, slicing into the backs of the hands that still grabbed Prowl in a terrible body hold. Howling in pain, the bruiser dropped the doorwings, and the two transformed to make their escape without another moment lost.
Prowl huddled on the street, breathing heavily as his doorwings trembled. His optics darted around nervously, peering into the darkness. He had no idea who had saved him, but he figured it wasn’t an Enforcer. They wouldn’t slink about in the darkness, hiding from the bruisers and letting them get away. Prowl squinted into the darkness, the heat still shimmering from the pavement, trying to see.
Jazz crept forward, hugging the shadows, his small laser pistol fixed with an electrical silencer still ready in his hands. His optics fixed to Prowl’s body, searching for damage. Aside from the trembling doorwings, Jazz saw none, but had he not acted, that would have been quiet different. Why, why had he attacked Prowl’s attackers? Why had he defended him? That was Jazz’s perfect opportunity to let Prowl go, to allow the traitor to slip away and let the messy business of his dispatch fall into another mech’s hands. His spark, however, would not allow it, and still, despite the twisting of Jazz’s mouth, the angry, frustrated facial gymnastics crossing his features, Jazz still crept forward to check on Prowl.
Prowl’s doorwings flicked upward. “Hello?” He called out. “Are you there?” He could hear the faintest shuffles of a mech’s feet, trying to be silent, in the sensor space between his wings.
Cursing, Jazz shook his helm, then stepped out of the shadows and into the dim street light. Their gazes met, optics locking together, and Jazz saw Prowl’s entire body stiffen in shock and surprise. He wondered if Prowl felt the same thrill explode from his spark at the simple meeting of their optics.
Jazz moved forward, his laser pistol still held low, and he crouched down next to the wide optic’d and motionless Prowl, stock still on hands and knees on the summer-hot pavement. “Are you alright?” Jazz asked, his voice hoarse from the conflict within his spark and processor.
Prowl inhaled shakily and nodded, his helm jerking up and down. “Did you shoot those mechs?”
“Yes.” Jazz didn’t mince his words, and he reached out with one hand to help Prowl to his feet. His hand came to rest on Prowl’s upper arm, and at the first touch that oh-so-longed-for electrical surge of soul-deep perfection, flared to life once more. It spread from his fingertips, sliding up his arm both within and without, and warmth bloomed outward from his spark, the alien feeling of contentment spreading through his being with honeyed, perfect lassitude. He couldn’t help himself, and as Jazz helped Prowl to his feet, his breath jerked out of his vents in ragged gasps of raw pleasure.
Prowl’s optics burned white-bright, and he moaned aloud, the same feelings coursing through his being as well. His optics roamed over Jazz’s body, hazy with confusion and emotion. Finally, his gaze fixed to the laser pistol still held in Jazz’s free hand, and Prowl’s optics cleared as he frowned. “You’re not a musician…” he whispered.
“I said I was a songwriter,” Jazz whispered back, his fingers betraying him as he stroked down Prowl’s plating, tenderly fingering the crook of his elbow as his vents gasped for raspy breaths. His spark was sparking, shots of perfection raining through his being.
“You’re not that either,” Prowl whispered, his optics rising to meet Jazz’s. “Who are you? What’s going on?”
A low moan escaped from Jazz’s throat, and he fought for only an astrosecond against everything of his being. It was futile though, and Jazz pushed backwards, steering Prowl toward the side of the building he’d just been thrown up against, backing him up slowly until he was flush against it, his doorwings spread wide and nearly vibrating off the surface of the structure. Prowl’s helm titled backwards at the slow, steady impact, and he seemed to melt against the wall behind him, breathing heavily.
Jazz stared at the lines of his throat, the softly heaving tubules of air and fluid coursing through Prowl’s body. He knew just which ones to sever, to make Prowl’s death painless and quick, and he also was imagining leaning down, suckling on each of them, licking a slow path up Prowl’s body as his energy coursed across their circuits and burned together. “Who are you?” Jazz whispered back, tearing his optics away from Prowl’s delicate, deliciously tempting throat. “Who the frag are you?”
“I’m-I’m just a mech,” Prowl stammered, his own body heating uncontrollably. The sweltering summer heat was cool against his plating.
“But…. Why?” Jazz pushed out through gritted teeth. His hand, gripping the pistol slackly, rose to Prowl’s hip, and his fingers brushed against Prowl’s plating, almost, nearly, holding him close. The urge to feel, to connect, to join with Prowl was intoxicating, and Jazz was having a hard time fighting it. Why did it have to be this way? Why was this one mech, the only mech he’d ever met that had any impact upon his spark, one of the handful of mechs he’d have to destroy? Why was Prowl, so hateful in his actions, the one mech Jazz yearned for with all of his spark? Why was Prowl doing these things? Why was Prowl a traitor?
“I…. don’t know…” Prowl breathed, barely speaking. He hadn’t a clue what was going on between them, but he knew he never, ever wanted it to end. He sighed, pushing his hip wantonly into Jazz’s touch, a simple guttural grunt escaping his lips.
Jazz offlined his optics. “What do you think about this insurgency, Prowl? What do you think about the rebellion?”
Stumbling, Prowl frowned back at Jazz, confused. The moment, the perfect clarity of the moment, was broken for an instant, and his wariness began to creep back in. Everything he did for the Senator was classified, and he had never broken that oath he’d made to serve him faithfully and loyally in everything he did.
“Please, please, Prowl… it’s important. What do you think? Where do you stand?” Jazz’s visor flashed, burning into Prowl’s gaze.
Prowl shook his helm, slowly. What was this, a ploy designed to pull information from him? Was he had? Was this a plot by the enemies, or another faction from the rebellion, trying to gather intelligence on his Senator’s action and negotiations? All at once, Prowl felt unsafe, desperate to escape, and penned in all around. He began to struggle, trying to get away.
Jazz’s grip was tough, however, and Prowl was pushed back against the building’s wall roughly, the touches at his elbow and hip no longer comforting, but restraining. “I need to know,” Jazz growled. “I have to.”
“I can’t!” Prowl gasped, twisting his helm to stare up at Jazz. “I work for a Senator, and I can’t share information…” He shook his helm, pleading. “I can’t….”
“I don’t care about the Senator,” Jazz breathed huskily, stepping flush to Prowl’s body. Every inch of their plating joined together, and the burn, the need, the desire to unite flashed nova-strong throughout both their beings. “I have to know about you,” Jazz grunted through gritted denta.
Shuddering and gasping at the feel of Jazz’s body on top of his own, Prowl’s optics offlined. The words were on his lips, entreaties to his beliefs and declarations of his rooted stance and a rootless world, but some modicum of control bitterly clung to his processor. He moaned, nearly sobbing, and his hands reached for Jazz’s forearms, trying to feel more of his touch, more of his soul. “I’m sorry….” Prowl whispered. “I can’t…. I can’t…” Prowl pleaded with Jazz, trying to get him to understand.
Groaning angrily, a frustrated growl tearing from his throat, Jazz lunged, burying his face in the crook of Prowl’s neck. His glossa snaked out, lapping at Prowl’s cables and stroking over the tantalizing features he’d dreamed about in recharge as he inhaled Prowl’s perfectly unique scent. Prowl screamed in surprise, breathless and ragged, then went limp as his knees buckled and the pleasure tore through his body unchecked. Jazz growled again, turning his helm upward, and he mouthed along Prowl’s jawline before suckling at the juncture of his helm and neck, just below his rounded audial. One of Prowl’s hands flew to the back of Jazz’s helm, trying to hold him there and reacting purely on instinct as his hips sought to connect to Jazz’s, seeking to grind against one another.
It took everything in Jazz’s being to tear himself away. He pulled away in an instant, disappearing into the shadows of the summer night and leaving Prowl, his desire, and the feeling of his spark once more tearing itself from his very being, behind.
-
Prowl spent a rechargeless offcycle tossing and turning futilely, his systems running hot and bothered. He’d opened his windows, and the oppressive heat of the summertime night made it way into his flat, cool against his burning frame. His thoughts were consumed with the mech he’d met, and though he knew he should be worried about a thousand other things, all Prowl could worry over was when he’d get to see him again.
The oncycle found Prowl, looking like an overcharged pile of scrap metal, dragging himself into the Council Chambers and to his office on the 30th floor of their tower. If he couldn’t recharge, then he might as well work, and he trudged into his office with his doorwings dropping low, nearly flat on his back.
“Problem detected,” a monotone voice droned at Prowl the astrosecond he entered his office. Not expecting anyone else that early, Prowl’s helm whipped up in shock.
“Soundwave!” He gasped. “I didn’t expect you to be here!” He inhaled shakily, then crossed over to his desk. Soundwave sat behind it, working at Prowl’s terminal. “What’s the problem?” Prowl asked, confused.
Soundwave tapped out a few commands on the terminal, then rotated the screen for Prowl to see. “Energon farmers in 16 districts refuse to supply Iacon with necessary replenishments. Stated reason: occupation of southern hemisphere dangerous precedent for all.”
Prowl sighed heavily, all the air whooshing from his vents in a heavy rush. “They’re rerouting their supplies down to the blockade…” Prowl’s optics scanned the raw intelligence report Soundwave displayed. “The army is going to have to fight farmers. Farmers who are trying to deliver energon to starving mechs.” Reports of a shortage of supplies behind the blockade as a result of the implementation of martial law had made sensational headlines around the planet. Prowl looked up, meeting Soundwave’s gaze. “This will not go over well at all…”
Soundwave’s visor flashed, a raw crimson light burning from deep within. “Indeed,” he drawled slowly. “Potentially disastrous to the northern front.”
Sighing, Prowl nodded slowly. “Disastrous is an understatement,” he whispered. “Has your Senator seen this?” Soundwave shook his helm slowly. His Senator, Ratbat, hadn’t reported to the Chambers that cycle yet. Prowl nodded, reaching out to banish the file to a separate pad. “I’ll deliver this to Senator Emberwire personally. We should try to make preparations, let mechs know, see what we can do… “ Prowl met Soundwave’s gaze levelly. “I’m getting thoroughly exhausted of this.”
“It will end soon,” Soundwave droned, standing slowly and moving out from behind Prowl’s desk toward the door.
“I hope so,” Prowl whispered, tapping the pad against the desktop. Silence filled the office, broken only by Soundwave’s heavy steps as he made his way to the doorway.
“Soundwave,” Prowl called out, questioning. “The world may be falling apart, but can’t the tech department fix your terminal?”
Soundwave’s visor flashed humorously. “One would think,” he replied dryly before twisting out of Prowl’s office.
-
It was all over the news wires by the midday, the farmers’ declaration of solidarity with the South. Energon prices skyrocketed, and the market reacted with deep unease, businessmechs selling off their shares in nearly everything in order to stockpile their accounts with credits. By days end, the problem of a public relations disaster involving simple farmer mechs with electron hoes and pickwires faded against the mass panic of a planet-wide economic meltdown. The businessmechs’ fears boiled down to the civilian mechs, and screams of fear drove the mechs to their account holders and bank holdings, where they withdrew as much credit as they themselves could, preparing for the worst. In only six joors, over a hundred private accounting holdings folded and went bankrupt. The news did not add to the general mood of the planet. Enforcers hit the streets of Iacon in droves, sirens whizzing through the blocks in shows of force. Guards were posted on every corner, and deep unease mixed with tense fear settled around every mech’s spark. There was talk of rationing in the days to come, and bitter anger followed on the heels of each new rumor. Angry crowds built outside the Council Chambers, though the Enforcers worked to disperse them quickly.
It was near the end of the cycle when the first reports came of the massive explosion tearing Kaon in two. No one believed it at first; rumor and reports of mass disaster were common in the beleaguered South, and exaggeration was even more common from the people under the Autobot’s martial law. However when Megatron himself, commander of the Autobot Occupation Force, appeared in a desperate holomessage on the floor of the Council Chambers, flickering in and out of focus and asking for immediate aide, everyone took notice.
A mineshaft had exploded and collapsed, the gasses and ores igniting deep below the city before bursting outward at every access junction. Miles and miles of the underground were burning, and the surface of the city was weakening and threatening to collapse into the fiery chasms below. Immediate aide was requested, Megatron beseeching the Council to send the bulk of the remaining Autobot Army, already stretched thin in the North, down to the South and to Kaon to help. After several hours of debate, the orders were cut, and the Army was on the move.
Prowl and Soundwave watched from the recessed mezzanine as the Senators debated loudly amongst themselves, arguing over the threats of leaving the North unprotected and the responsibility they had to the citizens of their planet, no matter how much those citizens wished to be independent of their reach. Basic spark-charity ruled the day, however, and those of a more practical mindset were quickly outvoted. Prowl shared a conflicted look with Soundwave.
If Prowl could be said to have one friend, Soundwave would be it. The two shared a passion for pragmatics and a love of logic, and they slowly had built a bond of friendship and shared information as they worked together in the halls of the Council. One of Prowl’s simple pleasures in life was his friendship with Soundwave, and he cherished their bond spark-deep.
Still, Prowl didn’t speak of the other worry still bearing down relentlessly on his processor. Who was this mech who was affecting his spark so? Who was this mech who was rending his world apart? Why was he here, and why now? Prowl couldn’t ignore the near incredulous coincidences between the timing of this mech appearing within his life and the increasingly convoluted nature of the insurgency. The mech, Sol, had asked questions about the rebellion, in fact, and Prowl’s concern for the safety of his role, his information, and the entirely of the extremely delicate political balancing act he was in the middle of weighed heavy on his mind. Still, he couldn’t banish the sheer physicality of his attraction to the mech, nor the soul-shifting way his being screamed to be united with him. What was happening? Was any of it real?
By the time he finally escaped the Council Chambers, it was well past the start of the offcycle, and the Enforcers had enacted a strict curfew. All bars were closed, the streets swept clean of the raucous, rough elements that thrived in the darkness. Enforcer sirens illuminated every street corner, and Prowl was personally escorted home by two mechs in heavy external armor. Prowl wondered where Sol had ended up for the night, and whether or not he was safe. Then again, he didn’t know if anyone was safe any longer. An electrical storm was brewing, the chaotic clouds sparking with turbulent, raw electricity, and it was only a matter of time before the storm broke out over the entire land. Prowl watched the skies with a painful sort of finality.
As Prowl trudged up to his simple flat, one of several hundred tucked into a tall tower on the southern side of the city, Jazz hid out of sight in the darkness, watching. He tucked himself behind the stairwell, and the first flash of lightning briefly lit up his hiding place, casting criss-crossed lines of shadows across his features. The humidity rose steadily, climbing in anticipation of the release, and Jazz could feel the thrum of the planet’s power readying for a reckoning. His hands clenched into fists at his side, and when he first caught sight of Prowl about to enter his flat, his spark sputtered within his chest, nearly guttering as a part of him wanted to weaken.
But no, this was the time. He had wasted too much time, cut off too many avenues that he should have taken, and now, he had to act. Autobot Headquarters was asking why Prowl wasn’t already terminated, and Jazz had no suitable answer to give them. He had plenty of opportunities, and it was only his own tumultuous emotions and his own terrible weakness on the matter that had stilled his hand. How could he terminate the one thing his spark had ever yearned for?
It didn’t matter what his spark wanted though, and Jazz was partly disgusted with himself for lusting so strongly after a traitor. What did that say about him, about the strength of his will and spark? Too many questions, too many problems, all raised by this one mech, this Prowl. He had to go.
Jazz strove forward, slipping from his hiding place as he quickly moved behind Prowl. Prowl’s doorwings hitched when he was halfway there, and Jazz knew he had been spotted. He broke into a run, rushing Prowl from behind as Prowl began to turn. The Enforcers that had escorted him to his tower had left him behind at the entrance, and it was only Prowl and Jazz now, alone outside his flat. Prowl’s optics flashed as he turned and saw Jazz tearing toward him.
Jazz crashed into him, wrapping his body up within his arms before slamming them both against the wall. The explosion from his spark, so completely destabilizing, flared once more, physically wrenching a tiny, gasping scream from Jazz’s vocalizer. Prowl shuddered in his arms, his hand flying up around Jazz’s body, and the two ended up grasping onto each other in a fierce bear hug, plating scrapping and rubbing together hotly as Jazz bore Prowl against the wall.
He’d come to terminate Prowl, but one touch, and everything changed. The intoxication of Prowl flowed through his being, shorting every circuit, and his spark unleashed the full force of its desire. Jazz was helpless against his soul, and he capitulated. His helm turned, nuzzling against Prowl’s plating, and with the slowness of a heated summer dream, their optics seized to one another as their lips slowly closed the distance in their first, tender kiss.
A clap of summer lightning tore through the sky as their lips met, but neither heard the rumble of the explosive thunder, nor felt the cascade of the acid rain begin to pour downward in sheets from above. The world contracted to the two of them, sealing the meaning to life in the junction of their bodies. Lips moved against one another, slow explorations of emotions and desire playing out in tender caresses, and their hands moved in counterpart over each other’s bodies, trying to map out every part, every feature. No thought remained, only the pull of their sparks, and neither mech could stand against that.
Prowl had already unlocked his door, and Jazz maneuvered them through the doorway and into his flat without breaking the kiss. Prowl dropped his data pads, uncaring of anything, and grasped Jazz’s face within his hands, his fingers caressing his dermal plating just beneath his visor. Jazz gasped, breaking the kiss momentarily, and then dove down to Prowl’s neck again, feasting on the long lines of his cables and basking in the scents and tastes of Prowl’s body. Prowl threw his helm back, his body vibrating, and moaned aloud as his hands gripped onto Jazz’s shoulders.
Another thunderclap, another streak of lightning, and Jazz hefted Prowl’s body into his arms, physically carrying him across the small studio flat to the simple berth. Prowl’s legs wrapped around Jazz’s waist, and he clung to Jazz as he was lowered down to his own berth. Jazz kissed his way up Prowl’s neck and over his audial, mouthing over the sensitive receptor for several seconds before climbing on top of Prowl’s frame. He gently stroked Prowl’s doorwings flat, sliding them up the berth surface until they were pointed as high as they could go and Jazz had enough room to brace himself with his hands against the berth. Prowl was gasping, nearly incoherent, and he couldn’t remove his optics, hands or legs from any part of Jazz.
Kissing continued, glossa sliding together, and then hands stroked over new places, learning all the ways to pull lightning from each other’s sparks and frames. Their bodies ground together, and then tentative fingers stroked lower, seeking entry to each other’s ports. Finally, a pause broke the storm between them, and Prowl stared into Jazz’s burning visor, gasping and panting for breath, control, and understanding. “I….” Prowl began, not knowing where his life was heading any longer. “I want this,” he whispered. “I want you.”
“Primus…” Jazz whispered, and the thunder stopped for just a moment, just long enough for them to speak and to kiss softly once more. Then it was fingers on ports, and Prowl gingerly pulled Jazz’s interface cable to himself with shaking, trembling hands as Jazz did the same. Neither of them were capable of composure, and they both fumbled as they tried to plug in.
The circuit connection was instantaneous, the power indescribable. Prowl screamed aloud, his vocalizer raw and unchecked as he arched upwards. Jazz gasped, panting, and he collapsed on top of Prowl in a desperate attempt to feel more, to connect more, to slide within Prowl’s own body. Who was this mech, and why did he do these things to Jazz? Why them, why now, and why were they on opposite sides of the building war?
The only answers were the lightning and the thunderclaps of the raging summer storm, echoing the gasps and moans of their pleasure.
They overloaded together, galloping to the finish, screaming as they plunged off the cliffface in unison, cascading down from the highest high either of them had ever felt. Afterwards, they lay together, intertwined and still plugged together, Jazz’s helm resting on Prowl’s chest as both of their breaths heaved. Humidity clung to both of their frames, far hotter and wetter than any storm surge outside.
Prowl’s hands stroked over Jazz’s backplates, tingles of warm fire trailing after his touches. He’d never felt better… and he’d never felt more scared. “Who are you?” Prowl whispered, his voice hoarse. “Please… I have to know…”
Jazz sighed, his optics dimming. Again, he’d stumbled, and this time in the biggest way possible. How could he have interfaced with Prowl? How could he have let his control slip so low? Despite his mistake, his deep professional mistake, Jazz couldn’t escape the feeling in his spark, the contented quietness of his soul at rest and at peace.
How that was about to break. Jazz’s hands slid up Prowl’s sides, and he rose to his knees, sliding upward until he caught Prowl’s wrists beneath his knees, immobilizing him against the berth. Prowl frowned, confused, and stared up at Jazz as Jazz’s hands came to rest against his neck and throat. All he needed to do was squeeze, or pull, to tear out the cables he knew by spark and had tasted only a short time before.
“What are you doing?” Prowl whispered, his optics filling with fear.
Jazz couldn’t speak, and he shook his helm, his lips shaking. “’M sorry,” he mumbled, his vocalizer cracking, just before he leant down, pressing his full weight against his hands.
Prowl’s optics flared, flashing with panic, and he tried to struggle against Jazz’s heavy restraint. Jazz had practice with holding mechs down, though, and he was slightly larger than Prowl was. All of Prowl’s struggles were futile, and Jazz could feel the slow ebb of Prowl’s racing energon beneath the surging, panicked lines under his grip. His spark was screaming, tearing itself into tiny pieces, and Jazz was trying to fight the bitter sobs that threatened to spill forth.
The worst was Prowl’s optics, and the betrayal, the absolute ravaged pain, and the pleading shattered the remnants of Jazz’s control. He reared backwards, slamming his fist into Prowl’s helm and cracking it sideways. Prowl, dizzy and losing consciousness from the cessation of energon to his processor, flopped uselessly against the impact, falling offline in an astrosecond.
Jazz gasped, one sob bursting forth, and he buried his face against Prowl’s chest. He could feel Prowl’s spark fluttering beneath the plating, and he knew, he knew with absolute certainty, that he couldn’t terminate Prowl. Damn him to the Pit, but he couldn’t do it. Not this time.
Jazz struggled off the berth, staggering to his feet, and it was only after his interface cable pulled painfully that he realized he was still connected to Prowl’s systems. The pain, the anguish he had felt had been shared, and it wasn’t just his own. That horror within his spark, the tearing of his being in two… Primus, Prowl had felt that as well.
Jazz choked back a sob as he unplugged himself from Prowl’s systems, and it took everything within him to not press a kiss to Prowl’s cold lips. Rage was building within him, rage at himself, at the world, at everything that was happening. Primus, why? Why this mech? Why? It would be easier if he could terminate Prowl, be rid of him and this problem.
But he couldn’t. Jazz slipped out of Prowl’s flat and into the bitter storm, letting the acid rain burn against his plating while the thunder echoed throughout his empty spark chamber.
to part 3
Rating: R
Universe: G1
Author: asher119
Pairing: Jazz/Prowl
Word Count: 16,410
Things were not going well at the Council.
The Senators and political personnel Prowl and Senator Emberwire were trying to reach out to for back channel negotiations were getting extreme and opposing pressure from the other side as well. Insurgent attacks were increasing in all the cities in the Southern hemisphere, striking against the Autobot forces occupying against the uprisings. Attacks were increasingly violent, the insurgents growing bold and striking against the Autobot soldiers with dramatic attacks of ferocious display, and the Autobot forces responded in kind, viciously cracking down on entire sections of the population. The pressures of the population were skyrocketing, and angry rioters and shouts of fierce rage echoed through the halls of the Council Chamber in Iacon and in the local political offices in the besieged city-states. Despite the few valiant attempts to reach out and broker negotiations across the bitter divide, each cycle that passed seemd to grow ever more grim and futilely hopeless. Prowl’s own feelings on the matter were deeply conflicted, and he and his Senator had spent long hours debating over the fractious contentions tearing through the Chamber, their hemisphere, and the planet itself.
They were trying, though, and Prowl spent long hours plotting and devising the different political strategies they could undertake, depending on which side they eventually ended up joining. Naturally, they currently were operating with both sides, and keeping each side in the dark about that little fact was absolutely paramount. Prowl’s day consisted of much subterfuge and cover up, followed by then trying to uncover all the deception to figure out the actual truth. He felt most Praxian then, in those moments, and it brought a wry smile to his face. Praxus lay south of the planetary equator, and politically had shifted over the megavorns in affiliation between the Northern and Southern political powerhouses of Iacon and Vos. Both developing sides of the brewing storm wanted Praxus to side with them. More numbers meant more legitimacy and more force for change. Thus far, the extreme violence of the Southern hemisphere had spared Praxus from the brunt of the destruction, but politically, Praxus was being shredded in two. No two mechs seemed to agree on anything any longer, and Prowl’s days were overrun with angry arguments and bitter entreaties for negotiations flying across the back channel comms.
He buried his helm in his hands as he slumped over his desk, letting out a loud, tired sigh. The late cycle had grown long, and the summer sunlight stretched out in burnt golden shades across the setting surface of the planet, prismatically striking against the metallic reflective surfaces of Iacon’s cityscape before refracting up into the windows on Prowl’s high-level office. There were moments when he could look outside and see utter normalcy, the parade of life and the natural world of Cybertron rolling forward despite all the frenzied craziness of the world’s mechs.
Unfortunately, Prowl couldn’t put it all out of his processor, and the fear gnawed at his internals with increasing dark worry. Adding to his frustrations, and to the ever increasing complications of his life, were the ceaseless, unrepentant, spark-deep thoughts and yearnings for the mech he had met and touched within the Gardens. Nothing in his entire life had prepared him for the simple profundity of the complete and total rush of his spark’s perfect contentment in that fraction of an astrosecond. He couldn’t explain it, and he couldn’t even try. It was merely one more thing that rested heavy on his processor, and his thoughts flashed between the struggles of the planet, the insurgent attacks, their steadily more difficult attempts to reach out in negotiation to Praxus’ neighbors, and every single painfully shy and difficult moment spent with the mech he knew as Sol.
Every offcycle that orn, after he finally managed to extricate himself from the Council, Prowl would return to the bar where he had met Sol, sitting in his usual perch for joors, far longer than he ever normally stayed for a simple drink. The stool beside him remained empty, though, and the bustle of the bar’s patrons continued around him undisturbed, his presence and the turbid confluence of his thoughts entirely uncared about. He was hoping, and using the furthest stretch of logic he possibly could, that Sol would return, and he’d get a chance for some answers… or simply another moment of that perfect, singular feeling that was consuming his entire being.
The mysterious mech who made Prowl’s world suddenly spin wildly off its axis hadn’t showed his faceplates since their connection in the Gardens, though. Prowl’s hope was fading, his fears and worries increasing, and once more, a quiet understanding deep within was unfolding, an understanding of his deep personal failings and the lack of worth that he was. How could he offer anything to such a mech, anything of fun or value or happiness in life? No matter how particularly profound it had felt, Prowl was certain that he was entirely incapable of being anything special for any mech.
That didn’t stop him from returning to the bar though, and as he slinked out of the Council Chambers and made his way to the downtown wetbar, Prowl knew he had to at least try to find him again. His spark wouldn’t let him stop. The summer heat was burning down onto his plating, and though the sun had set, shimmers of heat mirages wafted from the planet’s surface along the far stretches of the city’s roads.
Unseen at the back of the bar, Jazz hunkered down in the shadows, purposely standing far and away, hidden out of sight. He’d been following Prowl since the moment he’d returned to Iacon, full of disturbing intel and far more calamitous emotions. He had never, not once, felt anything close to what he had felt when he’d touched Prowl, and his first instinct had been one of danger and of harm. He’d reacted near violently, lashing out in self defense, and a bitter, dark corner of his spark whispered to him that that was a sign of how far he had fallen from his fellow Cybertronians. He couldn’t even feel a pleasant feeling without believing it was a hack, an enemy infiltration and distraction.
But then again, that was no mere pleasant feeling, no mere flaring of an energy field. That had penetrated his very soul, striking as a gong deep into the core of his spark, shaking and quaking the foundation of his self. He’d felt a magnetic pull toward Prowl, his spark’s need to be intimately close to Prowl’s, as if it knew secrets that Jazz did not, and the only way to unlock this secret part of his life was to never, ever leave Prowl.
Those thoughts were ridiculous though. Prowl was a target, an enemy, and now, a proven insurgent. Jazz had fled Iacon, returning to Orion Pax’s Column to recover and to perform a far more detailed scan and scrub of his systems, but when he’d arrived, a grim Orion Pax met Jazz with confirmatory information on Prowl’s espionage activities against the Autobots and the Council itself. Mechs in Praxus, influential businessmechs and the heads of institutions, mechs who had risked themselves with taking public positions in the tumultuous hotbed of the insurrection, had vanished. Militia leaders and lines of Autobot supplies and communications protocols had been hacked with information sent from Iacon. Soldiers had disappeared, sometimes violently, and each one was tied in some way to Prowl’s Council Chambers office. A new segment of coded communiqués had been uncovered, unraveled from a sophisticated embedded data coil and snaking out secret information to multiple contacts all over the martial-law-enforced, insurgency-ravaged Southern hemisphere.
Autobot Intelligence had known that someone in the Council Chambers had been smuggling intelligence out, and Prowl had quickly been keyed as the mech responsible. Without hard proof, however, any accusation could become a flash point of rage, especially since the Praxus city-state was still teetering on the edge of allegiance and any action taken against a Praxian by the Autobots, especially with a charge of treason and espionage, could be the one counterweight to turn the insurrection into a full-spread civil war. Now though, they had far more solid proof, and as they decrypted the rest of the newly discovered data coil, Orion Pax was hoping to discover exactly what Prowl had been communicating to the insurgents and where their people and information had vanished to.
Of course, that didn’t take away the very public and ugly problem of charging and arresting a Praxian legislative aide. It would be far more agreeable for Prowl to suffer an untimely accident, one perhaps tragic, and that was what Jazz specialized in. Untimely, tragic accidents.
Jazz was beginning to have the sinking feeling that the true accident here was him. He couldn’t take his optics off of Prowl, sitting at the bar alone, his doorwings slowly slumping downward, and Jazz’s entire being was consumed with disparate, warring emotions. He was a civil war unto himself, his spark divided in bitter feeling. Part of him was furiously angry, his natural allegiance to the Autobots and his own northern home winning over his knowledge of Prowl’s traitorous, hideous actions. A deeper part, also spark-deep but far more primitive, more raw, more carnal in feeling and in emotion, screamed out to go to Prowl, to be near him, to be drawn closer. That part won over the parts of his processor that screamed rationalizations, justifications, and one, tiny, terrible piece of his conscience that asked, “What if Prowl’s right?” What if Jazz was on the wrong side?
Jazz wanted to rip out his processor, banish all his doubts. He wanted to tear out his spark, return to the cold efficiency he had operated with for so long. The world had been black and white, but now, with just one touch, the world was suddenly all blackness, save for one shining, brilliantly white flash point: Prowl.
Prowl, for the first time in his entire life, asked for a second drink. He slid the empty first cube across the bar top disparagingly, his doorwings dropping ever lower. He pushed and pushed away, and then pushed some more, and when he finally wanted something, he had already done a fabulous job of creating such a mess that the actualization was impossible. He supposed that was what he excelled at in life, turning simple things into complex things. Funny though, logical thought was supposed to be his salvation from all of that. Still, no matter what he did, where he turned, pieces of Prowl’s world were coming apart. He hefted his second cube and downed a long swallow of the higher-refined energon. The buzz in his lines was an unwelcome reminder of the Gardens. He rubbed his elbow, the uninvited memory playing forth once more.
When Prowl finally stumbled out of the bar, his thoughts were so clouded, his emotions so dour and depressed, that he didn’t notice he was being followed. Jazz, watching Prowl like a keen turbohawk on the hunt, did. He swore, watching the two bruise sized mechs follow Prowl out of the bar with sly, twisted grins on their faces. Prowl wore his Praxian heritage and upper-class prestigious occupation unconsciously as part of his identity, and it had never occurred to him before, when he would leave before the nastier, grittier elements of the offcycle would emerge for their nightly rituals, to protect himself by changing himself. Now though, as he walked back to his flat in the middle of the off cycle, the denizens of the criminal world took notice of his refined features, his crisp paint, and his impeccable Council Chambers’ identification and Autobot sigil.
Prowl hadn’t gone more than a breem from the bar, halfway to his flat, when the bruisers rushed him from behind. Prowl was stunned, shocked from his maudlin processor’s wanderings, and he cried out in shock as he was thrown against the side of a building roughly. Hands restrained him as another pair wandered over his body, searching for hidden places and packets to conceal important documents, credits, or backdoor medical access to his subspace. Prowl jerked, trying to be free, but he was small compared to the two, and they easily restrained him with flashing, dark optics and guttural, husky laughs, twisting his arms and back against the metal framework. Prowl’s doorwings flared with pain, and he gritted his denta as he grunted and struggled against their restraint.
The bruisers were growing frustrated by the time they realized that for all of Prowl’s refinement, he carried very little on him in the way of value. He was a waste of their time, and neither of them appreciated that. The uglier of the two, though it was debatable, reared back, preparing to strike at Prowl with a vicious blow to his face as the other mech kept a fierce, tight hold on Prowl’s body, one hand beginning to twist at a delicate doorwing.
Softly illuminated and silent laser shots streaked through the night streets, snapping into the backplates of the two mechs and grazing just past their cheek arches. Both mechs cried out in pain, whirling around in defiance, but the shooter remained obscure and hidden. Another series of shots flared out silently, slicing into the backs of the hands that still grabbed Prowl in a terrible body hold. Howling in pain, the bruiser dropped the doorwings, and the two transformed to make their escape without another moment lost.
Prowl huddled on the street, breathing heavily as his doorwings trembled. His optics darted around nervously, peering into the darkness. He had no idea who had saved him, but he figured it wasn’t an Enforcer. They wouldn’t slink about in the darkness, hiding from the bruisers and letting them get away. Prowl squinted into the darkness, the heat still shimmering from the pavement, trying to see.
Jazz crept forward, hugging the shadows, his small laser pistol fixed with an electrical silencer still ready in his hands. His optics fixed to Prowl’s body, searching for damage. Aside from the trembling doorwings, Jazz saw none, but had he not acted, that would have been quiet different. Why, why had he attacked Prowl’s attackers? Why had he defended him? That was Jazz’s perfect opportunity to let Prowl go, to allow the traitor to slip away and let the messy business of his dispatch fall into another mech’s hands. His spark, however, would not allow it, and still, despite the twisting of Jazz’s mouth, the angry, frustrated facial gymnastics crossing his features, Jazz still crept forward to check on Prowl.
Prowl’s doorwings flicked upward. “Hello?” He called out. “Are you there?” He could hear the faintest shuffles of a mech’s feet, trying to be silent, in the sensor space between his wings.
Cursing, Jazz shook his helm, then stepped out of the shadows and into the dim street light. Their gazes met, optics locking together, and Jazz saw Prowl’s entire body stiffen in shock and surprise. He wondered if Prowl felt the same thrill explode from his spark at the simple meeting of their optics.
Jazz moved forward, his laser pistol still held low, and he crouched down next to the wide optic’d and motionless Prowl, stock still on hands and knees on the summer-hot pavement. “Are you alright?” Jazz asked, his voice hoarse from the conflict within his spark and processor.
Prowl inhaled shakily and nodded, his helm jerking up and down. “Did you shoot those mechs?”
“Yes.” Jazz didn’t mince his words, and he reached out with one hand to help Prowl to his feet. His hand came to rest on Prowl’s upper arm, and at the first touch that oh-so-longed-for electrical surge of soul-deep perfection, flared to life once more. It spread from his fingertips, sliding up his arm both within and without, and warmth bloomed outward from his spark, the alien feeling of contentment spreading through his being with honeyed, perfect lassitude. He couldn’t help himself, and as Jazz helped Prowl to his feet, his breath jerked out of his vents in ragged gasps of raw pleasure.
Prowl’s optics burned white-bright, and he moaned aloud, the same feelings coursing through his being as well. His optics roamed over Jazz’s body, hazy with confusion and emotion. Finally, his gaze fixed to the laser pistol still held in Jazz’s free hand, and Prowl’s optics cleared as he frowned. “You’re not a musician…” he whispered.
“I said I was a songwriter,” Jazz whispered back, his fingers betraying him as he stroked down Prowl’s plating, tenderly fingering the crook of his elbow as his vents gasped for raspy breaths. His spark was sparking, shots of perfection raining through his being.
“You’re not that either,” Prowl whispered, his optics rising to meet Jazz’s. “Who are you? What’s going on?”
A low moan escaped from Jazz’s throat, and he fought for only an astrosecond against everything of his being. It was futile though, and Jazz pushed backwards, steering Prowl toward the side of the building he’d just been thrown up against, backing him up slowly until he was flush against it, his doorwings spread wide and nearly vibrating off the surface of the structure. Prowl’s helm titled backwards at the slow, steady impact, and he seemed to melt against the wall behind him, breathing heavily.
Jazz stared at the lines of his throat, the softly heaving tubules of air and fluid coursing through Prowl’s body. He knew just which ones to sever, to make Prowl’s death painless and quick, and he also was imagining leaning down, suckling on each of them, licking a slow path up Prowl’s body as his energy coursed across their circuits and burned together. “Who are you?” Jazz whispered back, tearing his optics away from Prowl’s delicate, deliciously tempting throat. “Who the frag are you?”
“I’m-I’m just a mech,” Prowl stammered, his own body heating uncontrollably. The sweltering summer heat was cool against his plating.
“But…. Why?” Jazz pushed out through gritted teeth. His hand, gripping the pistol slackly, rose to Prowl’s hip, and his fingers brushed against Prowl’s plating, almost, nearly, holding him close. The urge to feel, to connect, to join with Prowl was intoxicating, and Jazz was having a hard time fighting it. Why did it have to be this way? Why was this one mech, the only mech he’d ever met that had any impact upon his spark, one of the handful of mechs he’d have to destroy? Why was Prowl, so hateful in his actions, the one mech Jazz yearned for with all of his spark? Why was Prowl doing these things? Why was Prowl a traitor?
“I…. don’t know…” Prowl breathed, barely speaking. He hadn’t a clue what was going on between them, but he knew he never, ever wanted it to end. He sighed, pushing his hip wantonly into Jazz’s touch, a simple guttural grunt escaping his lips.
Jazz offlined his optics. “What do you think about this insurgency, Prowl? What do you think about the rebellion?”
Stumbling, Prowl frowned back at Jazz, confused. The moment, the perfect clarity of the moment, was broken for an instant, and his wariness began to creep back in. Everything he did for the Senator was classified, and he had never broken that oath he’d made to serve him faithfully and loyally in everything he did.
“Please, please, Prowl… it’s important. What do you think? Where do you stand?” Jazz’s visor flashed, burning into Prowl’s gaze.
Prowl shook his helm, slowly. What was this, a ploy designed to pull information from him? Was he had? Was this a plot by the enemies, or another faction from the rebellion, trying to gather intelligence on his Senator’s action and negotiations? All at once, Prowl felt unsafe, desperate to escape, and penned in all around. He began to struggle, trying to get away.
Jazz’s grip was tough, however, and Prowl was pushed back against the building’s wall roughly, the touches at his elbow and hip no longer comforting, but restraining. “I need to know,” Jazz growled. “I have to.”
“I can’t!” Prowl gasped, twisting his helm to stare up at Jazz. “I work for a Senator, and I can’t share information…” He shook his helm, pleading. “I can’t….”
“I don’t care about the Senator,” Jazz breathed huskily, stepping flush to Prowl’s body. Every inch of their plating joined together, and the burn, the need, the desire to unite flashed nova-strong throughout both their beings. “I have to know about you,” Jazz grunted through gritted denta.
Shuddering and gasping at the feel of Jazz’s body on top of his own, Prowl’s optics offlined. The words were on his lips, entreaties to his beliefs and declarations of his rooted stance and a rootless world, but some modicum of control bitterly clung to his processor. He moaned, nearly sobbing, and his hands reached for Jazz’s forearms, trying to feel more of his touch, more of his soul. “I’m sorry….” Prowl whispered. “I can’t…. I can’t…” Prowl pleaded with Jazz, trying to get him to understand.
Groaning angrily, a frustrated growl tearing from his throat, Jazz lunged, burying his face in the crook of Prowl’s neck. His glossa snaked out, lapping at Prowl’s cables and stroking over the tantalizing features he’d dreamed about in recharge as he inhaled Prowl’s perfectly unique scent. Prowl screamed in surprise, breathless and ragged, then went limp as his knees buckled and the pleasure tore through his body unchecked. Jazz growled again, turning his helm upward, and he mouthed along Prowl’s jawline before suckling at the juncture of his helm and neck, just below his rounded audial. One of Prowl’s hands flew to the back of Jazz’s helm, trying to hold him there and reacting purely on instinct as his hips sought to connect to Jazz’s, seeking to grind against one another.
It took everything in Jazz’s being to tear himself away. He pulled away in an instant, disappearing into the shadows of the summer night and leaving Prowl, his desire, and the feeling of his spark once more tearing itself from his very being, behind.
-
Prowl spent a rechargeless offcycle tossing and turning futilely, his systems running hot and bothered. He’d opened his windows, and the oppressive heat of the summertime night made it way into his flat, cool against his burning frame. His thoughts were consumed with the mech he’d met, and though he knew he should be worried about a thousand other things, all Prowl could worry over was when he’d get to see him again.
The oncycle found Prowl, looking like an overcharged pile of scrap metal, dragging himself into the Council Chambers and to his office on the 30th floor of their tower. If he couldn’t recharge, then he might as well work, and he trudged into his office with his doorwings dropping low, nearly flat on his back.
“Problem detected,” a monotone voice droned at Prowl the astrosecond he entered his office. Not expecting anyone else that early, Prowl’s helm whipped up in shock.
“Soundwave!” He gasped. “I didn’t expect you to be here!” He inhaled shakily, then crossed over to his desk. Soundwave sat behind it, working at Prowl’s terminal. “What’s the problem?” Prowl asked, confused.
Soundwave tapped out a few commands on the terminal, then rotated the screen for Prowl to see. “Energon farmers in 16 districts refuse to supply Iacon with necessary replenishments. Stated reason: occupation of southern hemisphere dangerous precedent for all.”
Prowl sighed heavily, all the air whooshing from his vents in a heavy rush. “They’re rerouting their supplies down to the blockade…” Prowl’s optics scanned the raw intelligence report Soundwave displayed. “The army is going to have to fight farmers. Farmers who are trying to deliver energon to starving mechs.” Reports of a shortage of supplies behind the blockade as a result of the implementation of martial law had made sensational headlines around the planet. Prowl looked up, meeting Soundwave’s gaze. “This will not go over well at all…”
Soundwave’s visor flashed, a raw crimson light burning from deep within. “Indeed,” he drawled slowly. “Potentially disastrous to the northern front.”
Sighing, Prowl nodded slowly. “Disastrous is an understatement,” he whispered. “Has your Senator seen this?” Soundwave shook his helm slowly. His Senator, Ratbat, hadn’t reported to the Chambers that cycle yet. Prowl nodded, reaching out to banish the file to a separate pad. “I’ll deliver this to Senator Emberwire personally. We should try to make preparations, let mechs know, see what we can do… “ Prowl met Soundwave’s gaze levelly. “I’m getting thoroughly exhausted of this.”
“It will end soon,” Soundwave droned, standing slowly and moving out from behind Prowl’s desk toward the door.
“I hope so,” Prowl whispered, tapping the pad against the desktop. Silence filled the office, broken only by Soundwave’s heavy steps as he made his way to the doorway.
“Soundwave,” Prowl called out, questioning. “The world may be falling apart, but can’t the tech department fix your terminal?”
Soundwave’s visor flashed humorously. “One would think,” he replied dryly before twisting out of Prowl’s office.
-
It was all over the news wires by the midday, the farmers’ declaration of solidarity with the South. Energon prices skyrocketed, and the market reacted with deep unease, businessmechs selling off their shares in nearly everything in order to stockpile their accounts with credits. By days end, the problem of a public relations disaster involving simple farmer mechs with electron hoes and pickwires faded against the mass panic of a planet-wide economic meltdown. The businessmechs’ fears boiled down to the civilian mechs, and screams of fear drove the mechs to their account holders and bank holdings, where they withdrew as much credit as they themselves could, preparing for the worst. In only six joors, over a hundred private accounting holdings folded and went bankrupt. The news did not add to the general mood of the planet. Enforcers hit the streets of Iacon in droves, sirens whizzing through the blocks in shows of force. Guards were posted on every corner, and deep unease mixed with tense fear settled around every mech’s spark. There was talk of rationing in the days to come, and bitter anger followed on the heels of each new rumor. Angry crowds built outside the Council Chambers, though the Enforcers worked to disperse them quickly.
It was near the end of the cycle when the first reports came of the massive explosion tearing Kaon in two. No one believed it at first; rumor and reports of mass disaster were common in the beleaguered South, and exaggeration was even more common from the people under the Autobot’s martial law. However when Megatron himself, commander of the Autobot Occupation Force, appeared in a desperate holomessage on the floor of the Council Chambers, flickering in and out of focus and asking for immediate aide, everyone took notice.
A mineshaft had exploded and collapsed, the gasses and ores igniting deep below the city before bursting outward at every access junction. Miles and miles of the underground were burning, and the surface of the city was weakening and threatening to collapse into the fiery chasms below. Immediate aide was requested, Megatron beseeching the Council to send the bulk of the remaining Autobot Army, already stretched thin in the North, down to the South and to Kaon to help. After several hours of debate, the orders were cut, and the Army was on the move.
Prowl and Soundwave watched from the recessed mezzanine as the Senators debated loudly amongst themselves, arguing over the threats of leaving the North unprotected and the responsibility they had to the citizens of their planet, no matter how much those citizens wished to be independent of their reach. Basic spark-charity ruled the day, however, and those of a more practical mindset were quickly outvoted. Prowl shared a conflicted look with Soundwave.
If Prowl could be said to have one friend, Soundwave would be it. The two shared a passion for pragmatics and a love of logic, and they slowly had built a bond of friendship and shared information as they worked together in the halls of the Council. One of Prowl’s simple pleasures in life was his friendship with Soundwave, and he cherished their bond spark-deep.
Still, Prowl didn’t speak of the other worry still bearing down relentlessly on his processor. Who was this mech who was affecting his spark so? Who was this mech who was rending his world apart? Why was he here, and why now? Prowl couldn’t ignore the near incredulous coincidences between the timing of this mech appearing within his life and the increasingly convoluted nature of the insurgency. The mech, Sol, had asked questions about the rebellion, in fact, and Prowl’s concern for the safety of his role, his information, and the entirely of the extremely delicate political balancing act he was in the middle of weighed heavy on his mind. Still, he couldn’t banish the sheer physicality of his attraction to the mech, nor the soul-shifting way his being screamed to be united with him. What was happening? Was any of it real?
By the time he finally escaped the Council Chambers, it was well past the start of the offcycle, and the Enforcers had enacted a strict curfew. All bars were closed, the streets swept clean of the raucous, rough elements that thrived in the darkness. Enforcer sirens illuminated every street corner, and Prowl was personally escorted home by two mechs in heavy external armor. Prowl wondered where Sol had ended up for the night, and whether or not he was safe. Then again, he didn’t know if anyone was safe any longer. An electrical storm was brewing, the chaotic clouds sparking with turbulent, raw electricity, and it was only a matter of time before the storm broke out over the entire land. Prowl watched the skies with a painful sort of finality.
As Prowl trudged up to his simple flat, one of several hundred tucked into a tall tower on the southern side of the city, Jazz hid out of sight in the darkness, watching. He tucked himself behind the stairwell, and the first flash of lightning briefly lit up his hiding place, casting criss-crossed lines of shadows across his features. The humidity rose steadily, climbing in anticipation of the release, and Jazz could feel the thrum of the planet’s power readying for a reckoning. His hands clenched into fists at his side, and when he first caught sight of Prowl about to enter his flat, his spark sputtered within his chest, nearly guttering as a part of him wanted to weaken.
But no, this was the time. He had wasted too much time, cut off too many avenues that he should have taken, and now, he had to act. Autobot Headquarters was asking why Prowl wasn’t already terminated, and Jazz had no suitable answer to give them. He had plenty of opportunities, and it was only his own tumultuous emotions and his own terrible weakness on the matter that had stilled his hand. How could he terminate the one thing his spark had ever yearned for?
It didn’t matter what his spark wanted though, and Jazz was partly disgusted with himself for lusting so strongly after a traitor. What did that say about him, about the strength of his will and spark? Too many questions, too many problems, all raised by this one mech, this Prowl. He had to go.
Jazz strove forward, slipping from his hiding place as he quickly moved behind Prowl. Prowl’s doorwings hitched when he was halfway there, and Jazz knew he had been spotted. He broke into a run, rushing Prowl from behind as Prowl began to turn. The Enforcers that had escorted him to his tower had left him behind at the entrance, and it was only Prowl and Jazz now, alone outside his flat. Prowl’s optics flashed as he turned and saw Jazz tearing toward him.
Jazz crashed into him, wrapping his body up within his arms before slamming them both against the wall. The explosion from his spark, so completely destabilizing, flared once more, physically wrenching a tiny, gasping scream from Jazz’s vocalizer. Prowl shuddered in his arms, his hand flying up around Jazz’s body, and the two ended up grasping onto each other in a fierce bear hug, plating scrapping and rubbing together hotly as Jazz bore Prowl against the wall.
He’d come to terminate Prowl, but one touch, and everything changed. The intoxication of Prowl flowed through his being, shorting every circuit, and his spark unleashed the full force of its desire. Jazz was helpless against his soul, and he capitulated. His helm turned, nuzzling against Prowl’s plating, and with the slowness of a heated summer dream, their optics seized to one another as their lips slowly closed the distance in their first, tender kiss.
A clap of summer lightning tore through the sky as their lips met, but neither heard the rumble of the explosive thunder, nor felt the cascade of the acid rain begin to pour downward in sheets from above. The world contracted to the two of them, sealing the meaning to life in the junction of their bodies. Lips moved against one another, slow explorations of emotions and desire playing out in tender caresses, and their hands moved in counterpart over each other’s bodies, trying to map out every part, every feature. No thought remained, only the pull of their sparks, and neither mech could stand against that.
Prowl had already unlocked his door, and Jazz maneuvered them through the doorway and into his flat without breaking the kiss. Prowl dropped his data pads, uncaring of anything, and grasped Jazz’s face within his hands, his fingers caressing his dermal plating just beneath his visor. Jazz gasped, breaking the kiss momentarily, and then dove down to Prowl’s neck again, feasting on the long lines of his cables and basking in the scents and tastes of Prowl’s body. Prowl threw his helm back, his body vibrating, and moaned aloud as his hands gripped onto Jazz’s shoulders.
Another thunderclap, another streak of lightning, and Jazz hefted Prowl’s body into his arms, physically carrying him across the small studio flat to the simple berth. Prowl’s legs wrapped around Jazz’s waist, and he clung to Jazz as he was lowered down to his own berth. Jazz kissed his way up Prowl’s neck and over his audial, mouthing over the sensitive receptor for several seconds before climbing on top of Prowl’s frame. He gently stroked Prowl’s doorwings flat, sliding them up the berth surface until they were pointed as high as they could go and Jazz had enough room to brace himself with his hands against the berth. Prowl was gasping, nearly incoherent, and he couldn’t remove his optics, hands or legs from any part of Jazz.
Kissing continued, glossa sliding together, and then hands stroked over new places, learning all the ways to pull lightning from each other’s sparks and frames. Their bodies ground together, and then tentative fingers stroked lower, seeking entry to each other’s ports. Finally, a pause broke the storm between them, and Prowl stared into Jazz’s burning visor, gasping and panting for breath, control, and understanding. “I….” Prowl began, not knowing where his life was heading any longer. “I want this,” he whispered. “I want you.”
“Primus…” Jazz whispered, and the thunder stopped for just a moment, just long enough for them to speak and to kiss softly once more. Then it was fingers on ports, and Prowl gingerly pulled Jazz’s interface cable to himself with shaking, trembling hands as Jazz did the same. Neither of them were capable of composure, and they both fumbled as they tried to plug in.
The circuit connection was instantaneous, the power indescribable. Prowl screamed aloud, his vocalizer raw and unchecked as he arched upwards. Jazz gasped, panting, and he collapsed on top of Prowl in a desperate attempt to feel more, to connect more, to slide within Prowl’s own body. Who was this mech, and why did he do these things to Jazz? Why them, why now, and why were they on opposite sides of the building war?
The only answers were the lightning and the thunderclaps of the raging summer storm, echoing the gasps and moans of their pleasure.
They overloaded together, galloping to the finish, screaming as they plunged off the cliffface in unison, cascading down from the highest high either of them had ever felt. Afterwards, they lay together, intertwined and still plugged together, Jazz’s helm resting on Prowl’s chest as both of their breaths heaved. Humidity clung to both of their frames, far hotter and wetter than any storm surge outside.
Prowl’s hands stroked over Jazz’s backplates, tingles of warm fire trailing after his touches. He’d never felt better… and he’d never felt more scared. “Who are you?” Prowl whispered, his voice hoarse. “Please… I have to know…”
Jazz sighed, his optics dimming. Again, he’d stumbled, and this time in the biggest way possible. How could he have interfaced with Prowl? How could he have let his control slip so low? Despite his mistake, his deep professional mistake, Jazz couldn’t escape the feeling in his spark, the contented quietness of his soul at rest and at peace.
How that was about to break. Jazz’s hands slid up Prowl’s sides, and he rose to his knees, sliding upward until he caught Prowl’s wrists beneath his knees, immobilizing him against the berth. Prowl frowned, confused, and stared up at Jazz as Jazz’s hands came to rest against his neck and throat. All he needed to do was squeeze, or pull, to tear out the cables he knew by spark and had tasted only a short time before.
“What are you doing?” Prowl whispered, his optics filling with fear.
Jazz couldn’t speak, and he shook his helm, his lips shaking. “’M sorry,” he mumbled, his vocalizer cracking, just before he leant down, pressing his full weight against his hands.
Prowl’s optics flared, flashing with panic, and he tried to struggle against Jazz’s heavy restraint. Jazz had practice with holding mechs down, though, and he was slightly larger than Prowl was. All of Prowl’s struggles were futile, and Jazz could feel the slow ebb of Prowl’s racing energon beneath the surging, panicked lines under his grip. His spark was screaming, tearing itself into tiny pieces, and Jazz was trying to fight the bitter sobs that threatened to spill forth.
The worst was Prowl’s optics, and the betrayal, the absolute ravaged pain, and the pleading shattered the remnants of Jazz’s control. He reared backwards, slamming his fist into Prowl’s helm and cracking it sideways. Prowl, dizzy and losing consciousness from the cessation of energon to his processor, flopped uselessly against the impact, falling offline in an astrosecond.
Jazz gasped, one sob bursting forth, and he buried his face against Prowl’s chest. He could feel Prowl’s spark fluttering beneath the plating, and he knew, he knew with absolute certainty, that he couldn’t terminate Prowl. Damn him to the Pit, but he couldn’t do it. Not this time.
Jazz struggled off the berth, staggering to his feet, and it was only after his interface cable pulled painfully that he realized he was still connected to Prowl’s systems. The pain, the anguish he had felt had been shared, and it wasn’t just his own. That horror within his spark, the tearing of his being in two… Primus, Prowl had felt that as well.
Jazz choked back a sob as he unplugged himself from Prowl’s systems, and it took everything within him to not press a kiss to Prowl’s cold lips. Rage was building within him, rage at himself, at the world, at everything that was happening. Primus, why? Why this mech? Why? It would be easier if he could terminate Prowl, be rid of him and this problem.
But he couldn’t. Jazz slipped out of Prowl’s flat and into the bitter storm, letting the acid rain burn against his plating while the thunder echoed throughout his empty spark chamber.
to part 3