Title: Spark Deep
Rating: R
Universe: G1
Author:
asher119Pairing: Jazz/Prowl
Word Count: 16,410
Prowl struggled to online the next oncycle, stiff, sore and bruised from Jazz’s painful attacks. The last moments of his consciousness played within his processor, and Prowl gasped as he jumped up, ducking and trying to defend himself. He didn’t knew where he was, what time it was, or where the mech, who he decided was most definitely not a songwriter and probably not named Sol, was.
Two things belatedly entered his processor as he shivered, his vents coughing and sputtering. First, he was alone, the silence of his flat deafening. Secondly, Iacon was burning to the ground, smoldering in ruination and nearly devoid of life. Just outside his window, Prowl could see explosions tear through the city and the Council Chambers were half up in flames. Laser fire peppered through the streets, and Seekers streaked contrails across the burning sunrise sky.
Prowl tore out of his flat, racing downtown and to the Chambers.
-
The Council floor, the airy debate chamber where generations of laws had been passed and signed, was destroyed, burnt to the ground by the time Prowl finally made it to the Chambers. He’d raced through the warzone that the capital city had tunred into, and not an Enforcer was in sight as mechs tore screaming through the streets. Seekers flew overhead, raining down strafing fire on buildings, groups of mechs, and any individual trying to take a stand against their attack run. There was no army to protect them, and it was only after several blocks that Prowl realized one of the main buildings smoldering and in ruins was the Enforcer’s headquarters.
He raced up the smoky tower next to the Council hall, trying to find his Senator, trying to reach Soundwave, trying to do something, anything to help. Most of the building was deserted and burned offices, scattered pads, and debris littered the floors. He tore into his office with heaving vents, his optics darting around fearfully. “Senator!” Prowl bellowed, frantic tones tearing out of his vocalizer. “Senator!”
“Senator Emberwire is terminated,” a cold voice droned from within the smoke. A crimson flash caught Prowl’s optic, and he turned toward the larger mech striding from the direction of the Senator’s adjoining office.
“Soundwave!” Prowl gasped. “What happened? What do you mean the Senator is terminated? We have to call for help! Maybe we can save him!”
“Negative.” Soundwave’s voice held no room for debate.
Prowl froze, taking in the laser rifle in Soundwave’s arms. “Soundwave…” he whispered. “What’s going on?”
“Senator Emberwire refused to join us,” Soundwave said, his gaze burning into Prowl’s. “He was terminated for his refusal.”
Prowl’s shock and panic transformed to rage, the betrayal of the oncycle and his mystery murdering mech coalescing with the sudden and fierce betrayal of his one friend. “What?” Prowl screamed. “You’re one of them? You’re an insurgent?” His voice grew shrill, laced with panic and burning with rage.
“We will remake Cybertron in stronger, better image. The revolution is at hand,” Soundwave ground out, stepping forward. “You will join us. You will assist in the conversion of Praxus.”
“Never!” Prowl spat bitterly. “You’ve done this! You’ve destroyed this city, murdered hundreds! You’re killing innocent mechs! You murdered Emberwire!” Prowl heaved, his body shaking. “For what?”
“Exterminations are required for the new order to be installed. Only the strong will survive,” Soundwave growled, stepping closer to Prowl. “You are strong. You have one chance to join us, now.”
Prowl snarled, lunging at Soundwave without finesse. Prowl had never been trained in combat, and it showed in his lack of technique. He raced Soundwave, trying to bash the rifle away, but Soundwave easily kicked him aside and slammed the stock of his rifle in between Prowl’s doorwings on his backplates. Prowl fell to the ground, crying out in agony. Soundwave turned, hefting his rifle to fire on Prowl, and Prowl rolled himself over, staring at his one friend with bitter hatred.
“Do it,” Prowl hissed. “Shoot me, you sparkless waste of metal.”
Soundwave’s visor flared and his fingers trembled on the trigger. “Fall with your city,” Soundwave growled. “Fall with your mechs.” He held his gaze, then turned and strode out of the devastated, destroyed office. Prowl watched him go silently, feeling the entire world around him and within him plunge into chaotic darkness. He fell backward, lying on the floor for a moment, trying to make sense of the entirely of the collapse of the world, and found that he couldn’t. He simply couldn’t, and he didn’t know what to do now. What could one mech do, faced with the destruction of everything? Iacon was gone, the city in ruins, the infrastructure destroyed.
The shrillness of a fire alert tearing through Prowl’s floor finally pulled him from his stupor, breaking the fog of his processor. He stumbled to his feet, only instinct propelling him to move forward. He stumbled down from his office, leaving everything of his life behind.
He had no idea where to go.
-
Orion Pax’s Column struggled to respond to every call for aide, and he realized with grim certainty that he could not. Megatron’s forces had slaughtered the Autobot army columns that had responded to his fake call for aide for Kaon’s populace. Unchecked and undeterred, Megatron had turned his new army against the North, striking first at Iacon and then at the surrounding cities and population centers. Thousands and thousands of mechs were murdered, cities destroyed, and the entire planet was burning in a conflagration of rage and change. The hottest days of summer were ravaging through the Northern hemisphere, and it seemed as if the Pit itself had unleashed upon their world.
Calamity had come to Cybertron.
Orion Pax had lost contact with Sentinel Prime and Autobot Headquarters, and only a few straggling Columns and Corps were responding to his radio calls for combining forces and making a stand. They were falling back to a rallying point together, out in the wild areas of the Northern highlands. All else, they feared, was irredeemably lost. Orion Pax put out a call on the civilian frequencies, telling those that could make the trek to join them in their shelter. It was the most he could do.
Jazz raced to his Column as the first reports of devastation began to scream in and the fires of destruction began tearing through Iacon. The last transmission the cycle prior from Autobot Intelligence had been a mid-offcycle decryption of the last data packet sent through the mole in the Council Chambers. It had been chock full of command codes, activation codes, protection protocols and diagrams to the city’s infrastructure, safety systems and backup power sources. It contained everything to devastate Iacon, and it had been the information that had allowed the Seekers to utterly destroy the city in eight breems flat. Orion Pax and Jazz were the last mechs alive who knew of Prowl’s role in the destruction, and the hatred that coursed through Orion’s being was palpable and bitterly potent. He watched Jazz transform and took a grim amount of satisfaction in knowing that Jazz was about to tell him the traitor was terminated.
Instead, Jazz wouldn’t meet his optics. “He got away,” Jazz whispered. “I wasn’t able to terminate him.”
“What?” Orion Pax growled. “He got away?” Jazz nodded, pointedly looking away. “Do you understand that this mech is singly responsible for sending a data packet to Megatron’s forces that unlocked Iacon’s defenses? That allowed them to slip through to our capital and destroy everything? That he is responsible for the expansion of this revolution? He has supported and bolstered Megatron as they built their base of power, right under our optics!” Orion Pax slammed his data pad down, the rage within him finally exploding outward. “He sent this last offcycle. How could you lose him last offcycle?”
Jazz’s helm whipped around, his wince at Orion’s words vanishing in an instant. “He sent it last offcycle?” Jazz whispered. “When? When did he send it?”
“Just after the mid-offcycle. Everyone else had left the Chambers,” Orion growled, frustration boiling.
“Primus…” Jazz breathed, shock quaking his soul apart. “Primus, Orion, it wasn’t him! It’s not him! We’re chasing the wrong mech!” Jazz spark screamed, anguish and elation fighting for space and control. “It’s not him!”
“What are you saying?” Orion growled, his optics narrowing. “How do you know it wasn’t him? It came from his office, with his authorization codes. His identification is all over the data bits, his comms signals and beacons were the transmission protocols.”
“Those can be faked… you know that!” Jazz cried. “Someone must have been using him!”
“He’s the only one that was ever a suspect. How can you claim it wasn’t him, Jazz?”
“Because I was with him last offcycle!” Jazz shouted. “I was with him, from before the midpoint to nearly the oncycle, Orion! I was with him!” His visor burned, defiance bursting from his spark. Prowl was innocent, and now, he knew it. He knew it, and if he had only listened to his spark before, he’d have known it then as well. “I was with him,” he growled back at Orion Pax.
“You were with him?” Orion’s optic ridges rose in disbelief. “In what way?”
“That doesn’t matter right now,” Jazz hissed. “It wasn’t him. We have to find the real infiltrator!” Jazz turned and began to run out of the command post.
“Jazz!” Orion Pax called after him. “Where are you going?”
“To find Prowl,” Jazz replied. “He’s the best lead we’ve got.” And I have to find him.
-
Prowl stumbled, well low on energon, bruised, battered and sore, singed on the edges, and still numb with shock. He was walking, stumbling really, down the road back to Praxus. He couldn’t think of another place to go, no other place in the entire planet that would be safe for him. He had to return to his home, to the city of his own mechs. If it weren’t for the horror of how his … thing with that mech had turned out the cycle prior, he’d have tried to perhaps find him as well. But no, not after being nearly strangled in his own berth. He was such an idiot, such an all-slagged idiot, letting a mech he knew nothing about into his home and his life. No matter how amazing it felt, in the end, it was all for naught. Prowl felt the walls of his spark tremble, the feelings within him of yearning turn to pain and agony.
Praxus lay in the South, and the planet was small enough that even just crossing the equatorial divide led to changes in the weather pattern. A soft misty rain, cool and feather light, drizzled down from above, the first breath of winter creeping into Prowl’s frame. The ravages of the Pit unleashed upon the North hadn’t touched his home, not yet, and Prowl desperately, bitterly wished that his home could be spared. A stray thought crossed his processor, and he wondered if the price of their salvation would be joining the revolution. Where would his place ultimately be, he wondered. Where would his place in this new world be?
The misty rain was cool upon his face, and Prowl turned his helm upwards, trying to capture the refreshing liquid upon his glossa. His optics, dim and underpowered, barely made out the contrails of the silent Seekers streaking across the grey, pale sky, high above in the upper atmosphere. He frowned, watching their flight, their formation, and he wondered where they were headed. Perhaps to Tarn, or Vos, cities lying to the east of Praxus.
When the first bomb fell, and the city center of Praxus went up in flames, exploding outward in a devastating explosion of fiery rage, Prowl knew the final touch of despair. He screamed, trying to run, but he was still too far away, much too far away, and his body was underpowered and unable to sustain the demands he had already pulled from it. He stumbled, falling to his knees, and all he could do was watch the rain of the bombs that fell from the Seekers flying overhead, and witness the razing of his hometown, the leveling of everything of his culture and his heritage. Fireballs bloomed against the grey, colorless sky, and his spark reflected the monotone of the scenery. He’d seen too much now, too much betrayal, too much death, too much of everyone and everything turning against everything else, and his spark simply stopped under the crushing weight of it all.
The winter rain mixed with the ash of his burning home, and Prowl pitched forward, lying in the street as the last place on the planet that he could call home, could call his own, was eliminated from existence.
Prowl’s optics dimmed, and the flutters of ash turned to rivulets of mud that criss-crossed his helm and cheekarch, sliding to lie on the lips that the mech who tried to murder him had kissed so tenderly the offcycle prior. He wanted to stop, stop everything, stop his life, stop his existence, stop the pain that tore through his being, but his spark stubbornly clung to existence. Figures, Prowl thought, as the rain and ash continued to fall onto his body. Figures that I’d fail in dying as well.
-
Megatron turned to Soundwave as Starscream’s call crackled through the comm channels. “It is done,” Megatron declared, a vicious smile cracking his faceplates in two.
Soundwave nodded once, satisfaction filling the core of his being. He’d been betrayed by a Praxian, one he’d called a friend, and now, none would ever exist to betray their new world ever again. Megatron had allowed him the order, and Starscream had been only too obliging in leading the trines out to demolish and destroy their one recalcitrant Southern city.
He turned away, his spark as frozen as the tundras of the poles, where winter rains collected in the jagged scars of the planet’s formation and iced over into thick caps ceaseless ice. Not even the burning of the Pit, or of the North, could thaw his soul.
-
Jazz tore down the roadway, his scanners flying wide. Prowl hadn’t been in his flat, and he hadn’t been in Iacon either. He’d searched as far as he could, looking in every place that Prowl had ever been to, every place he’d stalked him on his intelligence mission. The Council chambers were burning, and Jazz had prayed that Prowl wasn’t in the tower. He was rummaging through the debris of Prowl’s blown out and destroyed flat when the comm had broken through his military channel about the razing of Praxus. With a sinking feeling, Jazz tore off, speeding as fast as he could go toward Prowl’s hometown.
Finally, a blip appeared up ahead, the first sign of life he’d seen in joors. There were no reports of survivors from Praxus, no chance for anyone to escape. The damage had been too quick, too decisive, and nothing there remained aside from smoldering ruins and broken promises. Jazz placed all of his hope on the lone sensor blip, racing toward the faint chirp.
When he arrived, the mech he found was covered in soot, ash and debris, blown there by the winter wind from the debris field that was Praxus. He was unrecognizable, and the steadily falling rain had chilled the mech’s systems to nearly freezing status. Still, Jazz could just make out the pointed red tips of his chevron, and he raced to his side, brushing away the ash and wet dust as gently as he could. “Prowl!”
Prowl’s optics flickered painfully, though he couldn’t focus on the mech reaching out to him. He couldn’t see, not with his systems so damaged, but the touches were painfully familiar, and his spark began to flicker, pulsing with the yearning he’d chased with a desperation he could nearly taste. It couldn’t be, it couldn’t possibly be. Fear spiked through Prowl. Had he come to finish what he had started? Was this Prowl’s end? Not enough to watch his home be destroyed, but to be murdered as well, lying in the street in the ash and the rain? A sob broke from Prowl’s throat. His place in the new world was to be dead, it seemed.
“Prowl!” Jazz screamed, reaching out to touch his face. He could barely feel Prowl at all, and only the faintest hint of their previous surging connection remained thrumming through his fingers. “Prowl, you have to stay with here. Primus, you have to stay here! You have to! I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry… I didn’t know…. I didn’t know…” Jazz kept up his litany, crooning to Prowl as he crouched down next to his body, brushing ash and rain from his face as gently as he could. Prowl’s optics flickered and his face twitched painfully.
As gently as he could, Jazz rolled them both to the side of the road, lying them together in a small, sheltered ditch. He had to warm Prowl up before his systems froze and his spark starved. Already, the sluggish unresponsiveness of his systems was terrifying to Jazz, and his hands shook as he maneuvered Prowl into his arms. Prowl tried to struggle, faint words of protest dying on his lips, but Jazz pulled him close, wrapping his body around Prowl’s in a fierce, tender hold. “Prowl, I’ve got you,” Jazz whispered into his audial. “I’ve got you, you’re safe…. I promise, you’re safe….” Jazz swallowed, choking back his own bitter regret and anguish.
A joor later, and still, Prowl’s condition hadn’t improved. Jazz had whispered sweet nothings in his audials, entreaties to live and to cling to life, to stay with him, passioned pleas to hold on, whispers of longing and secrets, but still, Jazz could feel Prowl slipping away. Jazz was growing desperate and the rain continued to fall. He had to get Prowl to safety, but Prowl wouldn’t last long enough to make it to any sort of Autobot medical facility, especially if they all were on the run up to the Northern wilds.
Desperate and near out of his processor with frantic worry, Jazz did the only thing his spark told him to do. He didn’t even question it, and a small part of his mind decided that he would never question his spark again. If he had only listened, none of this would have happened, and he wouldn’t have nearly destroyed the one mech that had ever meant anything to him. Jazz rolled Prowl to his back, climbing on top of him, and forcefully triggered his own sparkplates open. His spark, burning with intensity, burst forth, tendrils flaring down to reach for Prowl.
Finally, Prowl reacted, his optics surging and flickering at the feeling and the sight of Jazz’s spark. He began to struggle, trying to escape, but he was too weak. Again, Jazz had to restrain him though, kneeling on Prowl’s wrists tucked against his hips, and Prowl’s fear spiked once more, along with his struggles. As gently as he could, Jazz reached out and pulled Prowl’s sparkplates apart, separating them slowly. Prowl spark, pulsing faintly and trembling within, surged upwards at the first breach of Prowl’s plating.
Tendrils of their sparks intertwined, automatically seeking each other out. The passion, the emotions, the raw burning that had captivated the both of them since that first touch was magnified, exploding in intensity, and a new understanding of unity, of purpose, and of soul-deep contentment and certainty ripped through each of their beings. It was raw, majestically so, and nothing could restrain the power.
Prowl screamed, throwing his helm backward as unwelcome, unwanted life and love poured into his soul. He tried to struggle, tried to escape, but Jazz was everywhere, all around him, and there was no way out. He’d never felt the intensity of feeling before, never felt such a concentration of feeling directed toward him, and it was simply terrifying. At the end of all things, at the end of his world, Prowl had never expected to find such love.
“Prowl, stop fighting!” Jazz pleaded, sobbing. “Please, please…. You have to stay here. You have to hang on. Please….” He wrapped himself around Prowl’s body, letting his spark energy fill Prowl’s being.
Finally, after what seemed like joors, Prowl’s struggles stopped, and his body went limp beneath Jazz’s. Their sparks calmed, no longer surging and flaring wildly. The storm was within now, the realignment of their souls and sparks alighting their bodies into one unit, one being, one soul divided only by plating and wires. Jazz fell offline, his body resting on top of Prowl’s, sheltering him from the storm, and though the winter rain continued to fall upon their bodies, only the perfection of a shared summer day was felt by either deep within.
-
Prowl onlined slowly in a makeshift medical tent, a syringe of energon stuck into the lines at the neck. Mechs were lying on cots all around him, and he realized with a small start that he was surrounded by soldiers.
“Prowl, right?” a clipped voice snapped from his left side. Prowl’s helm whipped around, staring at a white medic with a grey chevron. “I’m Ratchet. You were banged up pretty bad, but you’re going to be fine. Rest for a little longer, then get the slag out. I need the cot.” Ratchet made a few notes on his data pad and walked away without a word.
Prowl’s optics darted from right to left, staring around him. Where was he? The last thing he remembered was… Praxus. Prowl’s throat constricted violently the agony of watching his home be destroyed replying in his spark.
But wait… there had been something else. Another mech… No, the other mech. He had found him! He had come for Prowl, had found him, and… seemingly saved him. Prowl remembered soft hands, tender words, and his spark flared as it too remembered something else. Prowl glanced down, and the scratched paint and dents around his sparkplates couldn’t lie. That mech had spark merged with him. That mech had saved his life.
There was a different feeling within him, as if his entire being was slightly off key. There were parts of himself that had been rubbed raw, now soothed over. Faintly, across the dirty metal plating of the planet, Prowl could hear the rambling tune of a mech’s whistle, reclining in a cot and recovering from his own wounds. Prowl’s audial’s followed the notes, carried the pitch, and it was the first time he’d ever heard music in his life. Areas of darkness and panic deep within him were now gently pacified. Areas within his being of loneliness, now filled with an indescribable something, a sense that he was no longer alone, not anymore, not in this world.
The irony was simply stunning, as Prowl sat all alone in a medical tent in the middle of Primus knew where, surrounded by Autobot soldiers with no memory of how he had gotten there. Was that mech a soldier? Did he bring him to this place?
“Prowl?” A deeper voice resounded from Prowl’s other side, and he twisted around, staring up into the faceplates of a large warrior mech. Prowl, who had been fingering the evidence of his spark merge, suddenly stiffened. The mech before him projected power, authority and purpose, and he suddenly felt inadequate before him with the blatant evidence of his merge for all to see. “My name is Optimus Prime,” the mech began. “How are you feeling?”
Prowl swallowed, taking stock of his physical condition. Truthfully, he felt pretty good. “Physically, I am alright,” he said, his voice strong and steady. He swallowed, the images of Praxus flashing before his optics once more.
Prime nodded. “I am glad to hear that. I want to offer you my personal condolences on the loss of your city. We have identified two other Praxian survivors.”
“Two?” Prowl’s voice was a whisper.
Prime nodded grimly. “I am afraid so. We’re still hoping more refugees join us here though, so the numbers may increase. We can hope.”
Prowl nodded slowly. “Where am I?”
“You are with what’s left of the Autobot Army, camped in our new headquarters in the Northern Wilds. Megatron has seized control of the planet, and we’re now the insurgency.” Prime’s optics crinkled, and Prowl could imagine a grim smile forming behind his battle mask. “It is somewhat ironic.”
“Indeed,” Prowl mused softly.
“I would like to offer you a billet in my command,” Prime continued, his voice strong once more. “We have lost a great deal of officers, and I need a mech with your talents for analysis and tactical planning.”
“Me?” Prowl was aghast. “I’ve never had any sort of military training at all!”
“My engineers can build for you a battle computer, which will supplement your natural talent and skill with the specialized knowledge you will need.” Prime stood, waiting.
Frowning, Prowl shook his helm. “How do you know anything about me? I’m just a mech!”
Prime’s optics twinkled for a brief moment. “Your reputation preceded you, Prowl. I have also heard a great deal of recommendation for you. I would like for you to join my Command team.”
Prowl’s helm shot up as Prime spoke. “Who … Who told you about me?”
Prime reached out with one hand, squeezing Prowl’s shoulder gently. “Please let me know your decision quickly. Let Ratchet know if you need to speak with me again. I have much to do, and I could use the help right away.” He squeezed once more, then dropped his hand and turned to leave. Prowl watched him stride off, power and purpose trailing after his every move. He turned to say a few words to many of the injured soldiers, and Prowl saw genuine care reflected in each of their optics. He swallowed past the lump in his throat, offlining his optics.
Was this is new purpose? Was this his place in the new world?
Yes, his spark whispered. Prowl’s optics surged online, and he exhaled fiercely.
So be it.
-
Prime stepped outside the medical tent and the cold wind of the tundra bit instantly into his plating. It was always winter up in the wilderness, and the elevation kept the rain frozen as snow all year round. The sky was bleak, grey tones upon grey tones, merging with the grey dull metal of the planet’s surface. Only the scuffed plating of his soldiers brought any color to the location.
Jazz shifted on his feet outside, trying to stay warm. “Well?” Jazz asked.
“He’s doing fine,” Prime nodded. “I offered him the position. We’ll see what he says.” Prime paused, eyeing Jazz up. “He asked who recommended him. He’ll ask who brought him here.”
Jazz inhaled deeply and looked away, blowing on his hands and fingers cupped around his mouth. “He doesn’t know how I am,” Jazz said softly, shaking his helm. “He doesn’t know anything about me.”
“How should I answer his questions then?”
“That mech is dead,” Jazz said slowly, his voice dropping. “He’s long gone.”
Slowly, Prime nodded, and silence stretched out between the pair. “When are you leaving?” Prime finally asked.
Heaving a sigh, Jazz turned to peer south. “Now,” he said. “I was just waiting for…” he trailed off, his helm motioning back toward the medical tent. “Our satellites have picked up some comms traffic about Soundwave, and I want to go see for myself what’s up.”
Prime nodded. “Gather as much intel as you can. I expect you back here in six orns.”
“Understood.” Jazz nodded, blowing on his cupped fingers once more. His gaze finally rose, meeting Prime’s hesitantly, and the blowing wind dragged a burst of snow in between their bodies for a moment. “Thank you,” Jazz said softly. “I just… Thank you.”
Prime nodded once. “Trust your spark, Jazz. I’ll see you when you get back.”
-
Prowl stood on the southern edge of the Autobot camp, staring out into the winter wilderness. Snow drifts blew into new patterns with the ever present winds, and the biting air was near deathly frigid at most times. It was a most inhospitable place for a headquarters, but tactically, it was a brilliant move. Megatron could not march up to attack them, not without his supply lines suffering from fatigue and the power failures of such a journey breaking his mechs before the winter weather ever could. Seeker engines would freeze at the altitudes required to fly. Tactically, the location was perfect.
Prowl had a new appreciation for such things, now that his battle computer had been successfully installed. He worked with Prime on formulating their strike against Megatron and on their next move of the war. Prowl, who had fought bitterly against the insurgents while working for Senator Emberwire, found it ironic that he was now an insurgent.
At the end of the cycle, Prowl always wandered to the southern edge of their camp and stared out into the distance. He couldn’t explain it, and no one ever bothered him in his solitary ritual. Somewhere, far and away, a mech existed who bonded to Prowl, who had the answers to the questions Prowl had always asked, and who had saved his life with his unasked for love. Somewhere out there, the other half of Prowl’s being existed, and Prowl hadn’t a clue who he was.
Somewhere out there, his spark yearned for its partner.
-