Anniversary bingo challenge
Prompt: silence
Universe: movieverse, pre-ROTF.
Warning: character death. Or is dead. You watched bayformers ; you'll know.
Crossposted from my AO3
They had laid his body in an abandoned building damaged in the battle.
"Where's Jazz?" Prowl had asked. It was the first thing that he had said as soon as they had landed. There had been a faint murmuring behind him. The crew had been confused. Sideswipe, Hound, Arcee, and Wheeljack- no-one had been able to detect Jazz's spark signature.
Prowl had stared Optimus down from where he stood at the top of the ramp.
"I'll send you the coordinates," Optimus had replied, quietly.
Prowl's energon ran cold.
Prowl experimentally pushed on the double doors. They protested as they swung inwards, and Prowl ducked through them, shutting the doors behind him. The noise echoed loudly in the deserted, high-ceilinged space.
It was morning, and sunlight filtered in through the shattered windows at a low angle, dust and ash suspended in the broad golden beams. Thousands of glittering glass fragments carpeted the floor, and Prowl's mind immediately started to work on putting them back into the window frames. A whole mess of bullet holes peppered the wall here. Oh- after that, an explosion, then massive footsteps were trampling down the room, an enormous clawed hand tearing through the ceiling above. Prowl's optics narrowed. Megatron.
Prowl slowly stepped forward, taking everything in. The glass crunched beneath his feet. He didn't know what to think, what to expect. He didn't want to know.
There, at the back of the room- a figure shrouded in a stained grey canvas, laid upon a large crate, a sunbeam gently illuminating the material as it skimmed across familiar swells and dips of the form below.
Everything seemed to narrow to that point. Prowl put one foot in front of the other. Again. Again. His ears rang. The noise of the streets outside seemed to fade away while his energon pounded in his lines.
He reached out. In his vision, it felt like someone else's hand. Someone else's hand in someone else's reality that pulled back the material to reveal Jazz's broken, lifeless form.
Time came to a halt. In the background, his processor ran its usual subroutines, traced the damage, knew exactly who inflicted each wound on Jazz, which angle the strikes came from, which bullet holes belonged to whose weapons. But the most glaring damage on Jazz was the gaping hole where his midsection used to be. He could see Jazz's spine through the mess of torn wires, broken in two. Suddenly nauseous, Prowl looked away. But it was too late- he knew. The deep, narrow claw marks could only belong to one mech.
Prowl knew it had not been quick, nor painless. Cybertronians were built for survival. This was something Jazz would have survived, had this been a regular battle. A regular battle with a regular medical team and regular evacuation procedures in place. But on earth, there was only Ratchet, who no doubt had had his hands full with Blackout or someone else. Jazz would have bled out, slowly, systems failing as they attempted to draw energy from a nonexistent fuel pump and to operate a cooling system that was no longer there. Did Jazz call for help? Did anyone hear him? Rage suddenly filled Prowl. It was irrational. Ratchet would have been busy. It was not Ratchet's fault.
Megatron's fault, then. It was by his hands that Jazz had died. But Megatron was dead and rusting at the bottom of the laurentian abyss. Prowl wanted to fish him out, bring him back to life, then kill him again.
But it wouldn't bring Jazz back.
He suddenly felt alone. Overwhelmed, he sank to his knees, fingers twisting in the fabric. He missed Jazz.
"Jazz," Prowl choked out. He should say something. That's what bots did, didn't they? Say something in memory of the fallen ones. But it was no use. Prowl wanted to tell Jazz he loved him. That he loved his smile, his laugh, the way he lit up when he heard a song he liked. But it was too late now, wasn't it? Too late to take back those moments of silent contentment when Jazz put his arms around him from behind and whispered 'I love you' into his ear and Prowl didn't dare to utter those words in return, replying only with a smile or a chuckle. Prowl cursed his pride.
Jazz had known that Prowl loved him, didn't he? Even through Prowl didn't say it often? With all his spark, Prowl hoped so.
When browsing through the humans' news, Prowl came across an article that said that humans felt heartbreak like it was a physical pain. He had dismissed them as simple, carnal creatures. But now he knew what they meant.
It hurt. It hurt really, really badly.
It felt like his chest was burning, like someone had thrust a dagger into his spark. He shivered. No- that was not an accurate description. It felt like someone had reached into his chest and torn his spark out, and he was bleeding, slowly, from the inside.
When Jazz died, something in Prowl had died as well, and it was agonising. Prowl's hands shook.
"Jazz, Jazz..." Prowl repeated his name like a prayer as he searched out Jazz's limp hand. He twined his fingers around the cold, unresponsive digits and clung to them like a lifeline.
He didn't know what to do. He felt like he was going to implode and explode at the same time. His mind refused to believe that Jazz was gone, and yet the evidence was there before him, between his hands.
He pressed his lips to Jazz's fingers as a sob wracked his body. His vents rattled unsteadily. He felt like he was physically under attack. Another sob came, and then another. Once the floodgates opened, there was no holding back. He was then shaking helplessly, trying to heave air into starved vents when he could. He pressed a hand to his face, trying to contain the cleaning fluid pooling in his optics- then he stopped himself. Jazz deserved this, at least. His pride needed to go.
Cleansing fluid streamed down his face. Prowl laid his head on Jazz's ash-streaked shoulder and mourned.
He didn't know how long he knelt there for. It felt like a long time, and yet it seemed like an infinitely short time as compared to the rest of Prowl's days- which he would now have to spend without Jazz. Eventually, he straightened, joints creaking, as he struggled to control his vents. He wiped at his face. His optics felt dry. He was exhausted and drained and he ached everywhere, but most of all, his spark ached, crying out desperately for a connection that was no longer. He vented shakily.
"Ja-" his voice broke. He shuttered his optics, took a breath, and tried again.
"Jazz- come back." His voice sounded small. "Please."
It was illogical. Corpses couldn't reply. Even so, somewhere in the recesses of his broken spark, he imagined Jazz's visor lighting up his unscarred face, and Jazz would smile at Prowl the way he always did.
But Jazz- normally so full of life, light, and sound- now lay dark and motionless, and all Prowl was left with was silence.
Universe: movieverse, pre-ROTF.
Warning: character death. Or is dead. You watched bayformers ; you'll know.
Crossposted from my AO3
They had laid his body in an abandoned building damaged in the battle.
"Where's Jazz?" Prowl had asked. It was the first thing that he had said as soon as they had landed. There had been a faint murmuring behind him. The crew had been confused. Sideswipe, Hound, Arcee, and Wheeljack- no-one had been able to detect Jazz's spark signature.
Prowl had stared Optimus down from where he stood at the top of the ramp.
"I'll send you the coordinates," Optimus had replied, quietly.
Prowl's energon ran cold.
Prowl experimentally pushed on the double doors. They protested as they swung inwards, and Prowl ducked through them, shutting the doors behind him. The noise echoed loudly in the deserted, high-ceilinged space.
It was morning, and sunlight filtered in through the shattered windows at a low angle, dust and ash suspended in the broad golden beams. Thousands of glittering glass fragments carpeted the floor, and Prowl's mind immediately started to work on putting them back into the window frames. A whole mess of bullet holes peppered the wall here. Oh- after that, an explosion, then massive footsteps were trampling down the room, an enormous clawed hand tearing through the ceiling above. Prowl's optics narrowed. Megatron.
Prowl slowly stepped forward, taking everything in. The glass crunched beneath his feet. He didn't know what to think, what to expect. He didn't want to know.
There, at the back of the room- a figure shrouded in a stained grey canvas, laid upon a large crate, a sunbeam gently illuminating the material as it skimmed across familiar swells and dips of the form below.
Everything seemed to narrow to that point. Prowl put one foot in front of the other. Again. Again. His ears rang. The noise of the streets outside seemed to fade away while his energon pounded in his lines.
He reached out. In his vision, it felt like someone else's hand. Someone else's hand in someone else's reality that pulled back the material to reveal Jazz's broken, lifeless form.
Time came to a halt. In the background, his processor ran its usual subroutines, traced the damage, knew exactly who inflicted each wound on Jazz, which angle the strikes came from, which bullet holes belonged to whose weapons. But the most glaring damage on Jazz was the gaping hole where his midsection used to be. He could see Jazz's spine through the mess of torn wires, broken in two. Suddenly nauseous, Prowl looked away. But it was too late- he knew. The deep, narrow claw marks could only belong to one mech.
Prowl knew it had not been quick, nor painless. Cybertronians were built for survival. This was something Jazz would have survived, had this been a regular battle. A regular battle with a regular medical team and regular evacuation procedures in place. But on earth, there was only Ratchet, who no doubt had had his hands full with Blackout or someone else. Jazz would have bled out, slowly, systems failing as they attempted to draw energy from a nonexistent fuel pump and to operate a cooling system that was no longer there. Did Jazz call for help? Did anyone hear him? Rage suddenly filled Prowl. It was irrational. Ratchet would have been busy. It was not Ratchet's fault.
Megatron's fault, then. It was by his hands that Jazz had died. But Megatron was dead and rusting at the bottom of the laurentian abyss. Prowl wanted to fish him out, bring him back to life, then kill him again.
But it wouldn't bring Jazz back.
He suddenly felt alone. Overwhelmed, he sank to his knees, fingers twisting in the fabric. He missed Jazz.
"Jazz," Prowl choked out. He should say something. That's what bots did, didn't they? Say something in memory of the fallen ones. But it was no use. Prowl wanted to tell Jazz he loved him. That he loved his smile, his laugh, the way he lit up when he heard a song he liked. But it was too late now, wasn't it? Too late to take back those moments of silent contentment when Jazz put his arms around him from behind and whispered 'I love you' into his ear and Prowl didn't dare to utter those words in return, replying only with a smile or a chuckle. Prowl cursed his pride.
Jazz had known that Prowl loved him, didn't he? Even through Prowl didn't say it often? With all his spark, Prowl hoped so.
When browsing through the humans' news, Prowl came across an article that said that humans felt heartbreak like it was a physical pain. He had dismissed them as simple, carnal creatures. But now he knew what they meant.
It hurt. It hurt really, really badly.
It felt like his chest was burning, like someone had thrust a dagger into his spark. He shivered. No- that was not an accurate description. It felt like someone had reached into his chest and torn his spark out, and he was bleeding, slowly, from the inside.
When Jazz died, something in Prowl had died as well, and it was agonising. Prowl's hands shook.
"Jazz, Jazz..." Prowl repeated his name like a prayer as he searched out Jazz's limp hand. He twined his fingers around the cold, unresponsive digits and clung to them like a lifeline.
He didn't know what to do. He felt like he was going to implode and explode at the same time. His mind refused to believe that Jazz was gone, and yet the evidence was there before him, between his hands.
He pressed his lips to Jazz's fingers as a sob wracked his body. His vents rattled unsteadily. He felt like he was physically under attack. Another sob came, and then another. Once the floodgates opened, there was no holding back. He was then shaking helplessly, trying to heave air into starved vents when he could. He pressed a hand to his face, trying to contain the cleaning fluid pooling in his optics- then he stopped himself. Jazz deserved this, at least. His pride needed to go.
Cleansing fluid streamed down his face. Prowl laid his head on Jazz's ash-streaked shoulder and mourned.
He didn't know how long he knelt there for. It felt like a long time, and yet it seemed like an infinitely short time as compared to the rest of Prowl's days- which he would now have to spend without Jazz. Eventually, he straightened, joints creaking, as he struggled to control his vents. He wiped at his face. His optics felt dry. He was exhausted and drained and he ached everywhere, but most of all, his spark ached, crying out desperately for a connection that was no longer. He vented shakily.
"Ja-" his voice broke. He shuttered his optics, took a breath, and tried again.
"Jazz- come back." His voice sounded small. "Please."
It was illogical. Corpses couldn't reply. Even so, somewhere in the recesses of his broken spark, he imagined Jazz's visor lighting up his unscarred face, and Jazz would smile at Prowl the way he always did.
But Jazz- normally so full of life, light, and sound- now lay dark and motionless, and all Prowl was left with was silence.