Caught in the Act
And something completely different...
Title: Caught in the Act
Verse: G1
Rating: T
Characters: Prowl, Jazz
Warnings: Discussions of overload, humour
Summary: Prowl is forced into an awkward explanation; Jazz is amused.
Written for the prowlxjazz September challenge: week 1, prompts #4 & #5 - ‘Caught in the Act’/‘I never knew you liked to do that’
Wh…what…? Where…?
Awareness returned to Prowl in a rush of boot-up messages and sensor feedback. He shuddered, dialling down the input from his sensory wings in an attempt to make sense of the chaos. He circuits were fizzing, their activity a sharp contrast to the deep weariness that permeated his frame. Strange. This wasn’t a normal crash then. Those tended to feel remarkably peaceful, his processor blocking out his external systems - not stimulating them. This felt like…
No. The tactician’s still shaky processor clamped down on the thought. There was simply no way this could be what it felt like.
First rush of reboot confusion passed. Prowl returned his attention to the information streaming from his sensors, only realising as he did so that he was in his alt-mode. Most mechs would have transformed in his situation, preferring their optics to more limited alt-mode sensors. Most mechs didn’t have the inbuilt advantages of a Praxian frame.
Tense, more than a little alarmed by his unexplained reboot, Prowl ran a test cycle through his weaponry and focused on his door-wings, their output painting a picture as clear as any his optics could provide.
Oh.
Slumping on his wheels, the Second in Command of the Autobot Armed Forces let the power drain from his weapons subsystems. Prowl surveyed the high-fenced and night-darkened concrete lot with a sense of bemusement that faded into horror and guilt as memory returned. Dirt, streaked with the russet stain of iron oxides, ground beneath his tyres as he edged a few inches forward. He rocked to a halt, unsurprised to find a metal clamp around his left rear, impeding his motion. He didn’t fight it. Instead, he let his engine drop to a low idle, hunkered down amidst the wrecks rusting quietly in the night.
Looking on the bright side, he knew where he was now and had a pretty good idea of why.
On the other servo… Jazz was never going to let him live this down.
“So…?”
Prowl knew Jazz could move quietly. His tactical processors had assigned an eighty-percent probability to his fellow Autobot arriving to investigate before dawn (twenty percent that his rescuer would be Ratchet, Prowl’s tactical processor supplied). Given his situation, he’d fully expected the saboteur to make a wary approach, in case Prowl was the bait for some kind of trap. Even so, the drawled question earned a startled bounce on his wheels from the tactician.
He’d swear that the road outside the security fence had been empty just moments before. The racing Porsche now idling with two wheels on the sidewalk was a new feature. Jazz dipped his headlights, shifting on his wheels as his sensors swept the impound lot, before turning his attention back to the Autobot tactician parked quietly in one corner of the yard. His entire form radiated a bemused confusion that mirrored Prowl’s own emotions on waking.
“Good evening, Jazz.”
“No problem with yer vocalisor then?” Jazz vented a sigh and rocked on his tyres, casting a moving shadow in the streetlights. His relief at hearing his friend’s resigned tone was obvious. “Hafta say I was wonderin’. Cause, ya see, I know there’s gotta be a reason ya’ve not talked yer way outta there, but Pit if I know what it is. Yer goin’ to hafta help me out here.”
Prowl vented a sharp sigh. He rolled back the full six inches the parking boot allowed and then forward again, too tired to hide his frustration and embarrassment. As much as he was tempted to ignore Jazz and tune the saboteur out completely, his chances of getting out of here with his dignity intact (twenty-two percent and falling, his tactical processor interjected helpfully) relied heavily on getting out of here in the first place.
“Regulations are clear that detained Autobots are to avoid confrontation and await legal release. Jazz, if you’d be so kind - ”
“Uh-huh. Guess ya forgot the ‘Give the police your designation and the Ark’s callin’ code’ part of that reg.”
Prowl hadn’t so much forgotten as been offline until well after the humans locked the impound lot for the night. He strongly suspected that his fellow officer would find that fact less than reassuring.
“What ya do on yer day off is yer own affair, Prowler, but ya got the local enforcers kinda worried.” From Jazz’s tone, Prowl guessed they weren’t alone. “Took them half th’ night t’ figure out they had a ‘bot clamped. Called up t’ tell us ya hadn’t so much as twitched since they towed ya.”
“Indeed?”
“And that was after they’d had folks out ‘till dusk searching th’ cliffs an’ rocks below for whoever’d dumped a cop car with its doors wide open on a cliff-top.”
“Is that so? Jazz, I would be extremely grateful if - ”
“So want t’ tell me why I had t’ talk Ratch out of coming out here?”
“I…”
“He said something ‘bout reformatting th’ three of ya inta pleasure-bots.”
Prowl couldn’t help flinching. He rolled back fractionally, the steel frame of the parking boot clattering against the dusty concrete. The noise echoed, slowly fading into the stillness of the night. It was some hours after local midnight, according to Prowl’s chronometer. The streets were still and quiet, no sound to blur the sharp reverberations. Jazz let them die away, watching the mortified Datsun huddle on his tyres, before giving a thoughtful hum.
The unmistakeable sound of transformation drifted through the dark streets. A single step over the fence, and Jazz folded back down, bumper to bumper with Prowl. The tactician took a moment to appreciate his friend’s discretion. While the chances of anyone passing at this time of night were slim, the last thing he needed was human media getting wind of his presence here.
Then his already-sensitised systems reminded him that there was a gently-vibrating Porsche - still warm from the run out of the Ark - pressed up against his bumper, and it took everything he had to suppress a far-too-obvious shudder. Jazz was already concerned, his worry growing palpably as he took in the tense brush of Prowl’s energy field and the tactician’s silence.
“Maybe I should’ve let Ratch come…”
“No!” It emerged as more of a yelp than Prowl intended. “Jazz, it’s nothing, really.”
“Nothing.” If Jazz had been in root-mode he’d have tilted his head, adjusting his visor. Even in his vehicle form, his flat tone spoke volumes for his scepticism. His voice hardened. “A ‘nothing’ that has ya passed out on a cliff-top, at th’ mercy of human tow-trucks, not t’ mention any passin’ con? Don’t give me that, Prowler.”
“I’m perfectly well, I assure you. If you could just - ”
“This have somethin’ t’ do with what landed Smokescreen in medbay last orn?”
Prowl flinched. His tactical processor had predicted the question with a high degree of certainty. It had yet to come up with a good answer.
“Smokescreen was speeding, and collided with an electricity pylon.” And Prowl was still impressed that his subordinate had the presence of mind to carry that last bit off, even if he was quietly fuming about the reasons for it.
“Uh-huh.” Jazz sounded unconvinced. “And Blue, the day before yesterday?”
“Bluestreak… suffered a systems malfunction while racing Sunstreaker and Sideswipe.”
“The one that had his doors popping open at eighty miles an hour, or the one that had him passing out in a shower of sparks and tumbling off the road twenty seconds later? Never heard the twins scream fer help like that before, and I’m not keen t’ hear it again.” Jazz snorted, his energy field spiking with unhappy concern. “I’m head of Ops, not an idiot, Prowl. There’s somethin’ goin’ on with you three.” Five long seconds of silence was all the response Jazz got (ninety-four percent certain he’d press further, Prowl’s tactical algorithms reported, almost ninety-nine percent that Prowl would give in to the questioning). “It’s some kind of alt-mode incompatibility, isn’t it? Ya should’ve said something if the whole Datsun thing was hurtin’ ya. Leavin’ it this long’ll just be makin’ it worse. Slag it, Prowler! Why’d ya even come off base if yer sick?”
“I am perfectly healthy.”
“Healthy mechs don’t pass out on cliff tops.”
“We should really head back to the Ark - ”
“We ain’t goin’ nowhere ‘till I have some answers.”
Prowl vented a sigh. He didn’t need a tactical report to realise Jazz wasn’t going to let this go. The mech’s stubborn tone told him all he needed to know.
Truthfully, he couldn’t blame his companion. Smokescreen had managed to use the human’s power grid as cover and the tell-tale electric arcs had long since faded from Prowl’s frame, although he had no doubt Ratchet would read them in his system files before the night was through, but Bluestreak’s incident had worried everyone.
“Jazz…. There are circumstances in which even a healthy mech finds it difficult to maintain consciousness.”
“Name one!”
It had been a long day, and even with the arcing gone, Prowl’s systems were still charged well above their norm. Jazz’s firm, almost aggressive nudge against his bumper was the last straw. The embarrassment and irritation in Prowl’s field were washed away in a flood of something far stronger.
Jazz’s engine and Prowl’s roared in synchrony, two sets of cooling fans clicking into action as the excess charge dissipated through two overheated energy fields rather than just one. Jazz rolled back with a startled oath, putting space between them in a hurry.
“Ah… Prowl…?”
For the first time since his arrival, Jazz’s voice was tentative and a little nervous. Whatever answer he’d expected to his challenge, it hadn’t been that. Prowl growled quietly, not about to apologise despite the guilt that permeated his field.
“Answer me a question, Jazz. Why is it that you, and the twins, Tracks, Mirage - even Wheeljack - why do you all have race-capable alt-modes? What is it that makes speed so attractive to you here, when none of you were racers on Cybertron?”
Jazz was still jumpy, his fans yet to settle. Given his quite unexpected brush with Prowl’s overcharged field, the tactician wouldn’t have blamed him for putting the fence back between between them. To his credit though, the saboteur just rocked on his wheels, headlights dimming as he gave the question the serious consideration Prowl asked for.
“Never really thought ‘bout it. It’s just more of a thrill than I remember Cybertron ever bein’.”
“Yes, Jazz. But why?” Prowl couldn’t keep the desperation out of his voice, hoping beyond hope that he was right in his guess.
“I guess… Man, this is embarrasin’… Guess it’s the feel of it. Fighting the wind, feeling it stream over our armour, curlin’ round the panels. Sort of… strokin’ over them. Nothin’ like it back home.”
Now Jazz was the one squirming on his wheels. Prowl felt a chuckle rise inside him and let it shake his frame, much to his friend’s irritation. He modulated his field, letting Jazz see his apology while he was still struggling to filter the laughter out his vocalisor.
“I cannot help but wonder what our human friends would think, if they knew so many of us find their thick atmosphere so… exciting.”
“Excitin’s overstatin’ in a bit, don’tcha think?” Jazz grumbled, dipping his headlights and rocking on his suspension. “Just sayin’ it feels kinda nice, that’s all.”
“And that’s with your primary sensors buried deep in your alt mode.” Prowl kept his tone even. Even so, the observation dropped into a silence made heavy by sudden realisation. “Jazz, you’re head of Special Ops, as you so forcefully reminded me just a few klicks ago. You’re a better observer than almost any other Autobot on Earth. Don’t tell me you’ve never noticed Bluestreak and me running with substantially heated systems when we get to a battlefield.”
“Ratch said it was a limitation o’ the Datsun design. I thought yer engines just couldn’t take the speeds.”
“It’s not our engines that have the problem.” Prowl opened and closed his front doors in emphasis. It was a Praxian quirk to place so many of their primary sensors on an external panel, trading vulnerability for sensitivity. In the thin air of Cybertron, it had never presented a problem. With the speed-driven winds of Earth caressing their sensitive plating…
“Man…” Jazz’s whisper faded into a splutter.
“Jazz?” Prowl edged forward, concerned by the odd shudder that ran through his companion. He hissed in frustration as the human device around his tyre arrested the motion.
“Man, oh man, Prowler…” Jazz shuddered again, but this time the splutter dissolved into laughter that bubbled from the depths of his frame with ever-increasing force. “Yer… yer tellin’ me that racing doesn’t just get ya hot, it get’s ya hot.”
Prowl vented a heavy sigh. Jazz’s laughter was about the best response he’d dare hope for (eight percent probability of disgust, twelve percent denial, seventeen percent over-protective concern… almost forty percent of his predictions involved some manifestation of Jazz’s always unpredictable but fierce temper). He straightened on his wheels nonetheless, putting as much dignity into his posture as he could muster as he waited for his companion to regain coherence.
Several minutes later, he was still scowling to himself, patience wearing thin as he watched the giggling Porsche bounce on his wheels. “It’s not that funny.”
“Prowler… the twins…”
“The twins?”
“Their faces… if they knew what yer thinkin’ each time ya hafta catch them up.”
The image surprised a laugh out of Prowl despite himself. The expression of horror on Sunstreaker’s face was all too easy to imagine. Almost as easy to picture as Prowl’s own horrified face if the twins ever learned the source of his frustration after every long chase.
Prowl rocked into silence, too preoccupied to laugh for long. Not for the first time, he questioned the wisdom of telling Jazz any of this. The simple truth of it though was that the Porsche would’ve wormed the explanation out of him sooner or later. Prowl calculated little chance (less than three percent, according to his tactical processor) that Jazz would let him out of this lot with anything less than the full story. Tired as he was, he couldn’t fight the inevitable. Even if that meant waiting out his companion’s fit of hilarity.
It was several minutes before Jazz subsided, his good humour gradually fading back into concern.
“So... so… so what’s changed? An’ don’t tell me it’s nothin’. We’ve been on Earth two years, Prowler, and suddenly the three of you are playin’ dodge-wrench with Ratch?”
There was nothing for it.
“Smokescreen developed a theory…”
“Now this I gotta hear!”
“… a theory that if the armoured face of our doorwings was sensitive to wind speed, the softer inner face…”
“Would be more than just sensitive? The way he was cracklin’ when Ratch hauled him in, I’m guessin’ he was right.”
Prowl could only be grateful that his alt-mode concealed his grimace. “Spectacularly so, if Smokescreen’s account of the incident is to be believed.”
“An’ Blue reckoned he had t’ give it a try?”
“A decision that I have since discussed with him. At length.”
“Ouch.” Jazz’s grin was audible in his voice. “Didn’t stop ya landin’ up here, I see.”
“Given the circumstances, I thought a controlled test with open doors in a suitably windy location…”
“So, ya gonna tell me what happened, Prowler, or leave me guessing?”
Laughter had drained the tension from Jazz’s frame. The saboteur closed the gap between them, nudging bumpers companionably. Prowl rocked stiffly on his wheels, wishing he could back up himself as embarrassment returned.
“The effect was rather stronger and more… rapid… than I anticipated.”
It took a moment for that to sink in. Their energy fields once again overlapping, Prowl could feel his companion’s struggle for composure. It was a losing battle.
“It blew ya processor so fast ya got caught in the act?”
Prowl sank on his wheels as Jazz sniggered.
“It’s been a long day and a longer night, Jazz. If you’d be kind enough to contact the appropriate authorities and arrange my release?”
This time Jazz’s chuckle was gentler. The Porsche hummed, soft and low, and Prowl felt the subsonics ripple through his doorwings a moment before the parking boot clicked open beneath his tyre.
“Jazz, shouldn’t you at least call…?”
Jazz transformed, his visor glinting in the streetlights. “All done an’ dusted ‘fore I got here, Prowler.”
“You mean,” Prowl triggered his own transformation, doorwings rising high above his head, “that I could have walked out of here without…?”
“Givin’ me mah biggest laugh of the last vorn?” Jazz grinned, reaching out to steady Prowl as the Praxian stepped over the security fence behind him. “Look at it as practice fer tellin’ Ratch the whole sordid story.”
Prowl’s groan faded into the music of dancing gears as he folded back into his alt-mode, wondering if he’d ever be able to show his face again. Not that he doubted Jazz’s discretion. There was a less than five percent chance his friend would betray his secret. But there was still Ratchet to face, and the rest of the night-shift ready to spread the inevitable gossip. Bluestreak and Smokescreen at least would make a reasonable guess as to the events of the day (seventy-eight percent probability, his tactical processor confirmed) and what Bluestreak knew…
He was still contemplating his chances as the Porsche in front of him purred into life. The jolt that followed startled him out of his analysis. A tug on his bumper and his wheels rotated without his conscious volition.
“Jazz! Your magnets?”
“Ratch said I should give ya a tow, if I felt ya needed it.”
“I am quite capable - !”
“Of sittin’ down tomorrow to put ‘Doors will be closed whilst in motion’ in the regs? Yup.”
“Jazz…” Prowl didn’t try to break the magnetic tow. He did, however, activate his blinkers as they approached the highway, less sanguine than Jazz about the lack of traffic in this dead of night.
“So ya’d best make the most of it while ya can. It’s not like a second overload is gonna be any harder t’ explain t’ Ratch than th’ first.”
“Jazz!”
The rev of Jazz’s engine was loud in the night, its purr a counterpoint to the rattle of gravel under their tyres as they picked up speed. There’s was something soothing about the steady vibration. It was tempting to settle back into Jazz’s strong grip… too tempting to focus on the growing breeze across his sensor panels.
“Relax, Prowl. I’ll take care of ya. Ya can let go.”
“And you won’t?”
Prowl’s voice came out shy, a thread of eagerness escaping his weakening control. Jazz chuckled again, low and rich and full of understanding.
“Never in a thousand years, Prowler. I’ve got ya.”
There was a promise in those words - one Prowl would need to think about. For now though… Prowl popped his locks with an audible click. Forcing the doorwings open against the headwind took an effort…
And despite his embarrassment, despite the risk and the heady feeling of placing his fate so completely in Jazz’s servos (nine-hundred and eighty-three percent certainty his trust was justified, came the report from his rapidly degenerating tactical processor)… despite all that…
It was worth it.
Title: Caught in the Act
Verse: G1
Rating: T
Characters: Prowl, Jazz
Warnings: Discussions of overload, humour
Summary: Prowl is forced into an awkward explanation; Jazz is amused.
Written for the prowlxjazz September challenge: week 1, prompts #4 & #5 - ‘Caught in the Act’/‘I never knew you liked to do that’
Wh…what…? Where…?
Awareness returned to Prowl in a rush of boot-up messages and sensor feedback. He shuddered, dialling down the input from his sensory wings in an attempt to make sense of the chaos. He circuits were fizzing, their activity a sharp contrast to the deep weariness that permeated his frame. Strange. This wasn’t a normal crash then. Those tended to feel remarkably peaceful, his processor blocking out his external systems - not stimulating them. This felt like…
No. The tactician’s still shaky processor clamped down on the thought. There was simply no way this could be what it felt like.
First rush of reboot confusion passed. Prowl returned his attention to the information streaming from his sensors, only realising as he did so that he was in his alt-mode. Most mechs would have transformed in his situation, preferring their optics to more limited alt-mode sensors. Most mechs didn’t have the inbuilt advantages of a Praxian frame.
Tense, more than a little alarmed by his unexplained reboot, Prowl ran a test cycle through his weaponry and focused on his door-wings, their output painting a picture as clear as any his optics could provide.
Oh.
Slumping on his wheels, the Second in Command of the Autobot Armed Forces let the power drain from his weapons subsystems. Prowl surveyed the high-fenced and night-darkened concrete lot with a sense of bemusement that faded into horror and guilt as memory returned. Dirt, streaked with the russet stain of iron oxides, ground beneath his tyres as he edged a few inches forward. He rocked to a halt, unsurprised to find a metal clamp around his left rear, impeding his motion. He didn’t fight it. Instead, he let his engine drop to a low idle, hunkered down amidst the wrecks rusting quietly in the night.
Looking on the bright side, he knew where he was now and had a pretty good idea of why.
On the other servo… Jazz was never going to let him live this down.
“So…?”
Prowl knew Jazz could move quietly. His tactical processors had assigned an eighty-percent probability to his fellow Autobot arriving to investigate before dawn (twenty percent that his rescuer would be Ratchet, Prowl’s tactical processor supplied). Given his situation, he’d fully expected the saboteur to make a wary approach, in case Prowl was the bait for some kind of trap. Even so, the drawled question earned a startled bounce on his wheels from the tactician.
He’d swear that the road outside the security fence had been empty just moments before. The racing Porsche now idling with two wheels on the sidewalk was a new feature. Jazz dipped his headlights, shifting on his wheels as his sensors swept the impound lot, before turning his attention back to the Autobot tactician parked quietly in one corner of the yard. His entire form radiated a bemused confusion that mirrored Prowl’s own emotions on waking.
“Good evening, Jazz.”
“No problem with yer vocalisor then?” Jazz vented a sigh and rocked on his tyres, casting a moving shadow in the streetlights. His relief at hearing his friend’s resigned tone was obvious. “Hafta say I was wonderin’. Cause, ya see, I know there’s gotta be a reason ya’ve not talked yer way outta there, but Pit if I know what it is. Yer goin’ to hafta help me out here.”
Prowl vented a sharp sigh. He rolled back the full six inches the parking boot allowed and then forward again, too tired to hide his frustration and embarrassment. As much as he was tempted to ignore Jazz and tune the saboteur out completely, his chances of getting out of here with his dignity intact (twenty-two percent and falling, his tactical processor interjected helpfully) relied heavily on getting out of here in the first place.
“Regulations are clear that detained Autobots are to avoid confrontation and await legal release. Jazz, if you’d be so kind - ”
“Uh-huh. Guess ya forgot the ‘Give the police your designation and the Ark’s callin’ code’ part of that reg.”
Prowl hadn’t so much forgotten as been offline until well after the humans locked the impound lot for the night. He strongly suspected that his fellow officer would find that fact less than reassuring.
“What ya do on yer day off is yer own affair, Prowler, but ya got the local enforcers kinda worried.” From Jazz’s tone, Prowl guessed they weren’t alone. “Took them half th’ night t’ figure out they had a ‘bot clamped. Called up t’ tell us ya hadn’t so much as twitched since they towed ya.”
“Indeed?”
“And that was after they’d had folks out ‘till dusk searching th’ cliffs an’ rocks below for whoever’d dumped a cop car with its doors wide open on a cliff-top.”
“Is that so? Jazz, I would be extremely grateful if - ”
“So want t’ tell me why I had t’ talk Ratch out of coming out here?”
“I…”
“He said something ‘bout reformatting th’ three of ya inta pleasure-bots.”
Prowl couldn’t help flinching. He rolled back fractionally, the steel frame of the parking boot clattering against the dusty concrete. The noise echoed, slowly fading into the stillness of the night. It was some hours after local midnight, according to Prowl’s chronometer. The streets were still and quiet, no sound to blur the sharp reverberations. Jazz let them die away, watching the mortified Datsun huddle on his tyres, before giving a thoughtful hum.
The unmistakeable sound of transformation drifted through the dark streets. A single step over the fence, and Jazz folded back down, bumper to bumper with Prowl. The tactician took a moment to appreciate his friend’s discretion. While the chances of anyone passing at this time of night were slim, the last thing he needed was human media getting wind of his presence here.
Then his already-sensitised systems reminded him that there was a gently-vibrating Porsche - still warm from the run out of the Ark - pressed up against his bumper, and it took everything he had to suppress a far-too-obvious shudder. Jazz was already concerned, his worry growing palpably as he took in the tense brush of Prowl’s energy field and the tactician’s silence.
“Maybe I should’ve let Ratch come…”
“No!” It emerged as more of a yelp than Prowl intended. “Jazz, it’s nothing, really.”
“Nothing.” If Jazz had been in root-mode he’d have tilted his head, adjusting his visor. Even in his vehicle form, his flat tone spoke volumes for his scepticism. His voice hardened. “A ‘nothing’ that has ya passed out on a cliff-top, at th’ mercy of human tow-trucks, not t’ mention any passin’ con? Don’t give me that, Prowler.”
“I’m perfectly well, I assure you. If you could just - ”
“This have somethin’ t’ do with what landed Smokescreen in medbay last orn?”
Prowl flinched. His tactical processor had predicted the question with a high degree of certainty. It had yet to come up with a good answer.
“Smokescreen was speeding, and collided with an electricity pylon.” And Prowl was still impressed that his subordinate had the presence of mind to carry that last bit off, even if he was quietly fuming about the reasons for it.
“Uh-huh.” Jazz sounded unconvinced. “And Blue, the day before yesterday?”
“Bluestreak… suffered a systems malfunction while racing Sunstreaker and Sideswipe.”
“The one that had his doors popping open at eighty miles an hour, or the one that had him passing out in a shower of sparks and tumbling off the road twenty seconds later? Never heard the twins scream fer help like that before, and I’m not keen t’ hear it again.” Jazz snorted, his energy field spiking with unhappy concern. “I’m head of Ops, not an idiot, Prowl. There’s somethin’ goin’ on with you three.” Five long seconds of silence was all the response Jazz got (ninety-four percent certain he’d press further, Prowl’s tactical algorithms reported, almost ninety-nine percent that Prowl would give in to the questioning). “It’s some kind of alt-mode incompatibility, isn’t it? Ya should’ve said something if the whole Datsun thing was hurtin’ ya. Leavin’ it this long’ll just be makin’ it worse. Slag it, Prowler! Why’d ya even come off base if yer sick?”
“I am perfectly healthy.”
“Healthy mechs don’t pass out on cliff tops.”
“We should really head back to the Ark - ”
“We ain’t goin’ nowhere ‘till I have some answers.”
Prowl vented a sigh. He didn’t need a tactical report to realise Jazz wasn’t going to let this go. The mech’s stubborn tone told him all he needed to know.
Truthfully, he couldn’t blame his companion. Smokescreen had managed to use the human’s power grid as cover and the tell-tale electric arcs had long since faded from Prowl’s frame, although he had no doubt Ratchet would read them in his system files before the night was through, but Bluestreak’s incident had worried everyone.
“Jazz…. There are circumstances in which even a healthy mech finds it difficult to maintain consciousness.”
“Name one!”
It had been a long day, and even with the arcing gone, Prowl’s systems were still charged well above their norm. Jazz’s firm, almost aggressive nudge against his bumper was the last straw. The embarrassment and irritation in Prowl’s field were washed away in a flood of something far stronger.
Jazz’s engine and Prowl’s roared in synchrony, two sets of cooling fans clicking into action as the excess charge dissipated through two overheated energy fields rather than just one. Jazz rolled back with a startled oath, putting space between them in a hurry.
“Ah… Prowl…?”
For the first time since his arrival, Jazz’s voice was tentative and a little nervous. Whatever answer he’d expected to his challenge, it hadn’t been that. Prowl growled quietly, not about to apologise despite the guilt that permeated his field.
“Answer me a question, Jazz. Why is it that you, and the twins, Tracks, Mirage - even Wheeljack - why do you all have race-capable alt-modes? What is it that makes speed so attractive to you here, when none of you were racers on Cybertron?”
Jazz was still jumpy, his fans yet to settle. Given his quite unexpected brush with Prowl’s overcharged field, the tactician wouldn’t have blamed him for putting the fence back between between them. To his credit though, the saboteur just rocked on his wheels, headlights dimming as he gave the question the serious consideration Prowl asked for.
“Never really thought ‘bout it. It’s just more of a thrill than I remember Cybertron ever bein’.”
“Yes, Jazz. But why?” Prowl couldn’t keep the desperation out of his voice, hoping beyond hope that he was right in his guess.
“I guess… Man, this is embarrasin’… Guess it’s the feel of it. Fighting the wind, feeling it stream over our armour, curlin’ round the panels. Sort of… strokin’ over them. Nothin’ like it back home.”
Now Jazz was the one squirming on his wheels. Prowl felt a chuckle rise inside him and let it shake his frame, much to his friend’s irritation. He modulated his field, letting Jazz see his apology while he was still struggling to filter the laughter out his vocalisor.
“I cannot help but wonder what our human friends would think, if they knew so many of us find their thick atmosphere so… exciting.”
“Excitin’s overstatin’ in a bit, don’tcha think?” Jazz grumbled, dipping his headlights and rocking on his suspension. “Just sayin’ it feels kinda nice, that’s all.”
“And that’s with your primary sensors buried deep in your alt mode.” Prowl kept his tone even. Even so, the observation dropped into a silence made heavy by sudden realisation. “Jazz, you’re head of Special Ops, as you so forcefully reminded me just a few klicks ago. You’re a better observer than almost any other Autobot on Earth. Don’t tell me you’ve never noticed Bluestreak and me running with substantially heated systems when we get to a battlefield.”
“Ratch said it was a limitation o’ the Datsun design. I thought yer engines just couldn’t take the speeds.”
“It’s not our engines that have the problem.” Prowl opened and closed his front doors in emphasis. It was a Praxian quirk to place so many of their primary sensors on an external panel, trading vulnerability for sensitivity. In the thin air of Cybertron, it had never presented a problem. With the speed-driven winds of Earth caressing their sensitive plating…
“Man…” Jazz’s whisper faded into a splutter.
“Jazz?” Prowl edged forward, concerned by the odd shudder that ran through his companion. He hissed in frustration as the human device around his tyre arrested the motion.
“Man, oh man, Prowler…” Jazz shuddered again, but this time the splutter dissolved into laughter that bubbled from the depths of his frame with ever-increasing force. “Yer… yer tellin’ me that racing doesn’t just get ya hot, it get’s ya hot.”
Prowl vented a heavy sigh. Jazz’s laughter was about the best response he’d dare hope for (eight percent probability of disgust, twelve percent denial, seventeen percent over-protective concern… almost forty percent of his predictions involved some manifestation of Jazz’s always unpredictable but fierce temper). He straightened on his wheels nonetheless, putting as much dignity into his posture as he could muster as he waited for his companion to regain coherence.
Several minutes later, he was still scowling to himself, patience wearing thin as he watched the giggling Porsche bounce on his wheels. “It’s not that funny.”
“Prowler… the twins…”
“The twins?”
“Their faces… if they knew what yer thinkin’ each time ya hafta catch them up.”
The image surprised a laugh out of Prowl despite himself. The expression of horror on Sunstreaker’s face was all too easy to imagine. Almost as easy to picture as Prowl’s own horrified face if the twins ever learned the source of his frustration after every long chase.
Prowl rocked into silence, too preoccupied to laugh for long. Not for the first time, he questioned the wisdom of telling Jazz any of this. The simple truth of it though was that the Porsche would’ve wormed the explanation out of him sooner or later. Prowl calculated little chance (less than three percent, according to his tactical processor) that Jazz would let him out of this lot with anything less than the full story. Tired as he was, he couldn’t fight the inevitable. Even if that meant waiting out his companion’s fit of hilarity.
It was several minutes before Jazz subsided, his good humour gradually fading back into concern.
“So... so… so what’s changed? An’ don’t tell me it’s nothin’. We’ve been on Earth two years, Prowler, and suddenly the three of you are playin’ dodge-wrench with Ratch?”
There was nothing for it.
“Smokescreen developed a theory…”
“Now this I gotta hear!”
“… a theory that if the armoured face of our doorwings was sensitive to wind speed, the softer inner face…”
“Would be more than just sensitive? The way he was cracklin’ when Ratch hauled him in, I’m guessin’ he was right.”
Prowl could only be grateful that his alt-mode concealed his grimace. “Spectacularly so, if Smokescreen’s account of the incident is to be believed.”
“An’ Blue reckoned he had t’ give it a try?”
“A decision that I have since discussed with him. At length.”
“Ouch.” Jazz’s grin was audible in his voice. “Didn’t stop ya landin’ up here, I see.”
“Given the circumstances, I thought a controlled test with open doors in a suitably windy location…”
“So, ya gonna tell me what happened, Prowler, or leave me guessing?”
Laughter had drained the tension from Jazz’s frame. The saboteur closed the gap between them, nudging bumpers companionably. Prowl rocked stiffly on his wheels, wishing he could back up himself as embarrassment returned.
“The effect was rather stronger and more… rapid… than I anticipated.”
It took a moment for that to sink in. Their energy fields once again overlapping, Prowl could feel his companion’s struggle for composure. It was a losing battle.
“It blew ya processor so fast ya got caught in the act?”
Prowl sank on his wheels as Jazz sniggered.
“It’s been a long day and a longer night, Jazz. If you’d be kind enough to contact the appropriate authorities and arrange my release?”
This time Jazz’s chuckle was gentler. The Porsche hummed, soft and low, and Prowl felt the subsonics ripple through his doorwings a moment before the parking boot clicked open beneath his tyre.
“Jazz, shouldn’t you at least call…?”
Jazz transformed, his visor glinting in the streetlights. “All done an’ dusted ‘fore I got here, Prowler.”
“You mean,” Prowl triggered his own transformation, doorwings rising high above his head, “that I could have walked out of here without…?”
“Givin’ me mah biggest laugh of the last vorn?” Jazz grinned, reaching out to steady Prowl as the Praxian stepped over the security fence behind him. “Look at it as practice fer tellin’ Ratch the whole sordid story.”
Prowl’s groan faded into the music of dancing gears as he folded back into his alt-mode, wondering if he’d ever be able to show his face again. Not that he doubted Jazz’s discretion. There was a less than five percent chance his friend would betray his secret. But there was still Ratchet to face, and the rest of the night-shift ready to spread the inevitable gossip. Bluestreak and Smokescreen at least would make a reasonable guess as to the events of the day (seventy-eight percent probability, his tactical processor confirmed) and what Bluestreak knew…
He was still contemplating his chances as the Porsche in front of him purred into life. The jolt that followed startled him out of his analysis. A tug on his bumper and his wheels rotated without his conscious volition.
“Jazz! Your magnets?”
“Ratch said I should give ya a tow, if I felt ya needed it.”
“I am quite capable - !”
“Of sittin’ down tomorrow to put ‘Doors will be closed whilst in motion’ in the regs? Yup.”
“Jazz…” Prowl didn’t try to break the magnetic tow. He did, however, activate his blinkers as they approached the highway, less sanguine than Jazz about the lack of traffic in this dead of night.
“So ya’d best make the most of it while ya can. It’s not like a second overload is gonna be any harder t’ explain t’ Ratch than th’ first.”
“Jazz!”
The rev of Jazz’s engine was loud in the night, its purr a counterpoint to the rattle of gravel under their tyres as they picked up speed. There’s was something soothing about the steady vibration. It was tempting to settle back into Jazz’s strong grip… too tempting to focus on the growing breeze across his sensor panels.
“Relax, Prowl. I’ll take care of ya. Ya can let go.”
“And you won’t?”
Prowl’s voice came out shy, a thread of eagerness escaping his weakening control. Jazz chuckled again, low and rich and full of understanding.
“Never in a thousand years, Prowler. I’ve got ya.”
There was a promise in those words - one Prowl would need to think about. For now though… Prowl popped his locks with an audible click. Forcing the doorwings open against the headwind took an effort…
And despite his embarrassment, despite the risk and the heady feeling of placing his fate so completely in Jazz’s servos (nine-hundred and eighty-three percent certainty his trust was justified, came the report from his rapidly degenerating tactical processor)… despite all that…
It was worth it.