Festival Challenge - Day 22 - Entry 1
Title: Behind the Mask
‘verse: G1
Rating: T
Prompts: Carnivale Venezia, Endless
Characters: Jazz, Prowl
Warnings: A bit angsty
It was strange, Jazz mused, and more than a little unsettling, to see Prowl’s vehicular form so still and static. Even bound to the wooden pallet beneath its wheels, woven straps draped over its chassis in a complex web, he would have expected the Datsun to show some sign of movement. It wasn’t like he could have missed it. Jazz had spent most of the trip studying his fellow officer, and not just to distract him from the bindings securing his own sleek form.
For the dozenth time, Jazz reminded himself that the cargo nets were there for their own safety, and as a courtesy to the human pilots transporting them. The mesh straps were literally worlds away from the harsh bonds of Decepticon confinement. He - or Prowl - could break free with little more than a thought and a flex of servos. Neither Autobot had done so, but Jazz had spent the trip to Europe shifting restlessly nonetheless. It bothered him that Prowl had not.
Another mech might have assumed the tactician was in recharge, confident in the known capacity of human engineering and taking advantage of the downtime. Jazz, familiar with his companion’s every mood and equipped with some of the finest sensors on the planet, had no such illusions. Recharge was as far from Prowl’s processor as it was Jazz’s. If the tactician was shutting out the world around him, it wasn’t because he was comfortable with it. Quite the reverse.
Jazz shifted again, rocking forward on his wheels and then rolling back when he heard the human fabric creak in warning. Even that got no reaction from the brooding tactician beside him. Sighing to himself, Jazz settled, knowing that this was neither the time nor the place to break the silence. He had the rest of this trip to worm his way toward the root of Prowl’s problem. He was determined to do just that.
“No.”
It was the first unprompted statement from Prowl since they pushed back from the cargo terminal in Portland. The tactician folded his arms across his bumper, his sharp blue optics scanning the wooden construct in front of him. It rocked, a wind-blown wave nudging it against the side of the concrete landing. Rubber tyres, hung over the rails as a form of primitive shock absorber, creaked, the shift in pressure forcing air from them in a low whine.
Jazz looked at his companion in mild surprise, before turning back to look at his chosen transport.
“Aww, c’mon, Prowler! Why not? It’s traditional.”
“No,” Prowl repeated, his tone cool and as firm as Jazz had ever heard it. “We exceed this vehicle’s regulated cargo capacity by a significant margin.”
Jazz should have left it there. He really should have done. The two worried looking men standing on the boat’s back plate might even have thanked him for it. Marco Polo Airport was never quiet at this time of year. There’d be another charter flight landing soon enough, another load of tourists eager to sample even this unwieldy, double-sized, cargo-grade, gondola experience.
But Jazz was eager too, and Prowl was finally talking to him again, and he just had to go and push that little bit too far. His optics picked out the stencilled markings on the black hull, his processor checking them against familiar stats so rapidly it was scarcely conscious. His frame and Prowl’s, their weaponry, fuel supplies and the box Jazz had slipped into subspace as they passed through the terminal…
“We’ll be, what, ten percent over? Man, Prowl, you’ve got to relax. It’ll take it.”
His spark flinched even as the words escaped his vocalisor. His processor made the same connections he saw behind Prowl’s bright optics, and he felt more than heard the whine of his companion’s frame as it struggled to hide its flinch.
Prowl turned from him, his door-wings rising into a posture that was probably meant to look like irritation.
“Sometimes,” he said, his tone soft and brittle, “ten percent is enough.”
Jazz didn’t contradict him. The gondoliers, unsettled by the giant robots arguing over them, were pushing off even before the Ops mech waved them away. Sighing, angry with himself as much as the situation, Jazz put in a call to the Magistrato alle Acque, requesting a sturdier launch to ferry them into town. They had maybe three hours before the sunset ceremony that launched this shindig. It would be enough. Given the unaccustomed snap in his tone, and the humans’ startled reaction, he was pretty sure they wouldn’t have long to wait.
It wasn’t anyone’s fault.
Not even the Decepticons had set out to cause such carnage. They were raiding for fuel, raw materials, the basics of life. As much as the Autobots might despise their enemy’s methods, they understood the necessities of starvation and such skirmishes had long since fallen into a frustrating routine.
The Decepticons would bluster and threaten, driving any humans under cover more to get the pesky organics out from under their pedes than out of any malice.
The Autobots would arrive, doing their best to drive the aggressors off from the humans’ hard-earned resources and to ensure the safety of any of native caught in the firing line.
Sometimes the Decepticons got what they came for. Sometimes there was collateral damage - material, Autobot or perhaps even a rare human. Either way, the encounter would be over, its consequences accepted as the fortunes of war.
No one could have predicted that this time Megatron would lose his footing and drag Optimus Prime down on top of him, the two tussling on the factory’s flat roof. And it was pure chance that Ironhide’s shot, Bluestreak’s and Rumble’s found their respective targets within klicks of one another, bringing two Seekers and an irate Powerdive down beside their leaders in a succession of swift impacts.
Prowl, his battle processor fully engaged and his sharp optics missing nothing, saw the danger first. He ran forward, acid rifle still in hand and optics bright with alarm.
The few humans who had ventured to the door of their factory, alarmed by the creaks and debris showering from the above, didn’t see an Autobrand or Decepticon mask. They saw only the huge mechanism, moving fast towards them, his expression intent. They did what they were supposed to, what Prowl had always recommended: they retreated further indoors together with almost two hundred of their fellow workers.
Prowl was only metres away when the building caved in like a house of cards, close enough that flying debris broke his arm strut and perforated his door-wing sensors before knocking him into medical stasis. It could never be penance enough.
Eight point three percent. That was all. The weight on the building’s roof had exceeded its structural loading specifications by eight point three percent according to Wheeljack’s calculations. That had been enough to bring it down in a single, thunderous, lethal collapse.
It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It certainly wasn’t Prowl’s. The mech’s quiet withdrawal over the last few weeks, his silence and stillness, his reluctance to interact with their human guests on the Ark or even step outside the confines of his office, made it clear he believed otherwise. Jazz had more than half expected to see mourning marks appear on the tactician’s pristine paint-scheme. He’d more than half hoped for it, but he should have known better. Prowl’s finish remained spotless. Whatever his feelings, he wore the same unyielding mask he adopted as a matter of course, never admitting that it was stifling him. He wouldn’t… couldn’t… allow himself to show such weakness.
The request for Autobot representatives to attend the Carnivale had been sitting on Prowl’s desk even before the disaster. In the blitz of administrative effort that followed, he’d barely glanced at it before handing it off to Jazz. It had taken Optimus, Ironhide and Ratchet as well as Jazz himself to convince the tactician that he should join his fellow lieutenant on the diplomatic mission. In the end, Jazz was convinced, Prowl had done so purely to avoid further arguments.
Maybe so, but if the tactician thought Jazz would let this opportunity go, he was even more blinded by his grief than his friends feared.
“…and so, honored guests, I must welcome you to this, our most joyous festival!”
It was the applause at the end of the speech that clued Jazz in. Quite honestly, he’d tuned out almost ten minutes before. As the Autobot’s unofficial spokesman to the human authorities, he’d stood through more than a few civic receptions, albeit in less ornate surroundings. With that wealth of experience behind him, Jazz could speak with a fair degree of authority. The Sindaco di Venezia - the Mayor of Venice - had to be one of the least interesting speakers the Autobot saboteur had ever heard.
“Egregio Signor,” Jazz grinned, his charm smoothing over the mangled mess he made of the pronunciation. “Thanks for the welcome! Me and Prowl, well, we’re delighted.”
“Really?” It was all Jazz could do not to turn and look at his companion. The sarcasm in Prowl’s private comm-tone was both cutting and a sign of his deep irritation. The tactician had been stoic throughout the oration, his optics steady on the red-faced politician in front of them, not straying despite the distractions all around. Even now, his rigid form showed no hint of the frustration finally spilling over into words. “We’ve just endured a speech based on a higher proportion of inaccurate speculation and hyperbole than historical fact.”
“Hey, I said ‘delighted’, not listening.”
With a deliberate gesture, Jazz turned to look around them. The crowd, held back from the stage and the Autobots standing beside it by a police cordon, was huge. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen so many humans in one place. Most were dressed in party clothes, masks and other accessories hanging from straps around their necks or dangling in a loose hold. Beyond the throng, spotlights picked out the ornate tracery of the shops and restaurants lining St Mark’s Square. Its tiered arcade had been impressive when they first arrived in late-afternoon sunlight. At sunset, illuminated and decorated for Carnivale, it was enough to give even a Cybertronian pause.
For a moment Jazz’s sweep faltered, his visor picking out lights shaped like a constellation of small stars. Knowing the humans meant nothing by them, he felt their symbolism nonetheless.
He moved on, the smile firmly fixed to his faceplates. Inevitably his visored optics turned back to the vast, domed basilica that rose behind the stage. It towered above even the Autobots, its intricately patterned curves lit with inner fire as gold leaf reflected the light of the setting Sun. Whistling appreciatively, Jazz waved a hand towards it before nodding down at the red-faced human male centre stage.
“Got to say, you’ve got some place here. La Serenissima sure lives up to her reputation!”
“Dank, decaying, constructed with more enthusiasm and willful determination than skill or planning?”
The cheer that rose from all around, the laughter and the applause, covered the twitch of Prowl’s door-wings. Jazz stole a glance at his companion’s stony face. Prowl didn’t so much as look his way.
“You see it your way, Prowler. I’ll see it mine.”
In front of them, the mayor was trying to present them formally to the master of ceremonies, stumbling slightly as he tried to come up with an honorific for his guests. Neither enlightened him. Even if they’d been inclined to help the man, their ranks didn’t have a simple translation. ‘Commander’ was part of it, and ‘advisor’, but ‘guardian’ was there as well, and ‘mentor and ‘protector’, and that was before they got into their role-specific titles. Jazz didn’t have to ask to know the list was going through Prowl’s processor too, looping as he balanced that weight of responsibility against his perceived failures. It was a difficult assessment for them both. Keeping quiet was easier.
It didn’t help the humans though. The mayor frowned at them, as if suddenly uncertain that their eminence matched his own. They gazed back with steady confidence, neither admitting that quite the reverse was true. The Italian’s frown smoothed away, his false smile restored as he went on, his reluctance to yield the microphone only matched by his audience’s desire to see him gone.
The man who finally wrestled the microphone from his mayor’s grip was a little younger, a little slimmer, and infinitely better dressed. Jazz was no more an expert on human textile fashions than Prowl was, but even he recognised the velvet hose and frilly shirt as anachronisms, adopted for the man’s role as the celebration’s ceremonial Duke rather than an example of cutting edge tailoring.
The costumed man’s bow was elaborate, his acknowledgement of Jazz and Prowl respectful, and his similar bow to the crowd behind them equally so. He probably didn’t even notice the way Prowl’s door-wings angled towards him or the inclination of two helms in newly respectful acknowledgement. The mayor had made this event about himself and the Autobot guests who brought him kudos. The Carnivale’s master of ceremonies, representing the Doge who once ruled this city with an iron rod, politely but firmly made it about all the people of Venice - both natives and the myriad of visitors that outnumbered them.
Jazz braced for another speech, his grin easing and becoming less fixed as he realised this one was shorter and to the point: respect those around you; respect the city; have a whole load of fun.
A laughing cheer rose, one that Jazz joined in. Now that a credo he could get behind.
The mood changed. A costumed group, velvet clad lords and armoured guardsmen, came onto the stage, forcing the florid mayor to back up for fear of being ejected from the platform entirely. The escort surrounded their Doge, drawing him backwards towards a raised dais at the centre of the broader platform. He stepped up with a grave expression, his fists clenching and unclenching in silent tension.
The lords stood to either side of their master, mirroring the familiar positions Prowl and Jazz would take in support of their Prime. The armed escort backed off and two young women, also dressed in medieval finery, took their place. The girls carried a bundle of cloth between them, unfolding it to drape a heavy fur and velvet cloak around the Doge’s shoulders. Better researched than the city’s own mayor, both Prowl and Jazz knew what was coming as the eyes of the crowd lifted to the skies. Jazz’s optics followed, picking out the tall bell tower to their left.
A sigh rose, carried on a trumpet fanfare, as a third woman appeared, draped in white. She seemed to float, wires easing her in the Flight of the Angel from the height of the St Mark’s Tower to the centre of the Square. Cradling an indistinct shape of white and black in her hands, she walked forward and the crowd parted in a silent corridor before her. Two of the armoured escort were waiting. They lifted her onto the stage as if she weighed no more than the angel she represented. Pausing in front of the Doge, she bowed over the construct of paint, paper and plaster resting in her hands. Her expression solemn, she raised it towards him and he accepted with grave courtesy.
For a few seconds, the Doge stood with a lowered head. When he straightened, he was transformed, anonymised - no longer a simple man, but a figure of authority and power, his upper face entirely concealed by the ornate decoration of his mask.
The power of the moment, the emotional impact, exceeded Jazz’s wildest expectations.
For a few seconds the Autobot stilled, unsure whether he felt reassured about his decision to bring Prowl here, or more anxious. His visor fixed to the masked man, Jazz was all too aware of the package he held in subspace and as uncertain as ever of how his companion would react to its contents. Prowl had remained outwardly unmoved through the ceremony, only shifting his gaze for the Flight of the Angel. If Jazz could look behind those cool blue optics, would he see an analysis of this symbolism? Or would he find Prowl’s processor somewhere else entirely… back in the heaped concrete ruins, surrounded by dead silence rather than the rising chorus of cheers? He suspected he knew the answer.
All around them, revellers donned the gesso masks they’d been carrying and, for a moment, Jazz was tempted. But this wasn’t the time. He and Prowl stood in silence, both jealous and wary of the humans, and watching as they hid their inhibitions behind a masquerade, letting their true selves show.
The Doge stepped forward, a new confidence in his stride, his voice ringing across the crowded square.
“Let the revels begin!”
Jazz swayed. His lithe form moved with the music, his pedes placed carefully, always conscious of the small forms around him. His helm was thrown back, his visor dimmed as he relaxed into the rhythm.
St Mark’s Square had thinned out as the crowd dispersed across the island for the evening meal. Now, as festive lights drowned the dark sky above, the revellers had returned. Music and chatter spilled out from the bars and restaurants that skirted the square, bathing the crowded pavements between them. Masked humans, some clad in capes, others in full fancy dress, danced and laughed and flirted. A few just milled around watching the giant robot sashaying through their midst.
It always stunned Jazz just how quickly the natives of this planet could accept the alien and make it another part of their ‘normal’. On most worlds, he’d be under scrutiny for weeks to come. Here, the increasingly tipsy revellers already accepted his presence as part of the celeberation. Even so, it was several hours before the Autobot felt able to drift away from the centre of the square, following his sensors first towards its eastern edge, and then past the Byzantine splendour of the Doge’s palace.
The waters of the lagoon lapped against the piers on Jazz’s right. For a moment, as he glanced at the dark waters, he could have been standing on the edge of the Rust Sea and under Cybertron’s ever-night sky. The fantasy lasted no more than a few nanoclicks. Organic smells bombarded him, the sour smell of the waterfront mingling with the odours of thronged humanity. His audial sensors still rang with the sounds of celebrations, and under them the clatter of feet, the liquid sounds of the water and even a rustle of vegetation carrying on the night air.
He might have missed the soft sigh of Cybertronian vents if he hadn’t been listening for them. Prowl made no other sound, his tall frame poised statue-still on the edge of the wharf. Passing him, hurrying along the broad avenue and into the palazzos fronting the lagoon, a few committed revellers sought out still more parties. If they noticed the Autobot, they were content to ignore him. Maybe they thought Prowl was taken with the view, looking out across the mouth of the Grand Canal to the domes of San Giorgi Maggiore and the more modest Santa Maria della Salute beyond. More likely they just didn’t care.
Jazz cared.
He’d have chosen a more private place for this if he could. In the end, there was little choice. More than a few areas on their mental maps were marked in red, warning them of inadequate support for their weight. Here in the oldest quarter of town precious few routes would allow them unhindered access. Prowl had done his best to find one, stepping with care over fragile bridges and walking along the harbour side until the worst of the noise faded. This late in the night, the hard-core amongst the festival crowd had sought out a venue that would hold their attention until morning, while the less committed had already headed home. The few remaining party-goers moved with eyes downcast, huddled against the cool breeze off the lagoon and oblivious to the still form at the water’s edge.
Jazz was far from that. He moved quietly but with care, stepping up beside his companion. Relaxing into his usual poised slouch, he joined Prowl in silent contemplation.
“Why here?” The private comm was a whisper, the words silent to human ears. Even if another Cybertronian had been present, they’d have heard nothing pass between the two mechs.
Jazz didn’t react, waiting for clues about where this was going. He knew better than to think his companion’s question was an idle one. Prowl vented hard, the door-wing nearest Jazz twitching.
“I know why we’re here. I know you’re worried. I know you want me to talk. I just don’t know why here.”
“Guess we’re skipping the small talk then, Prowler?”
“Indeed.”
Air sighed out through Prowl’s vents. The tactician’s door-wings quivered his optics still avoiding Jazz’s. He nodded, accepting that this conversation could not be avoided any longer.
“They shouldn’t have died.”
“No.”
“It was my fault.”
Jazz straightened, his frame tensing. “No.”
“It is my responsibility to identify tactical threats, and to take action to mitigate them. Threats to the humans above all.”
Jazz’s laugh was dry and completely devoid of humour. It echoed back to him, distorted by the lapping water. “Prowl, no one short of Primus himself could have known how that day would work out. You’re only a mech. That’s not your fault, and nor was what happened.”
“So what am I meant to do? Overcharge? Break down keening? Perhaps I should wear mourning stars? Would that make you feel better?”
“It’s not my feelings I’m worried about!”
Prowl’s door-wings rose a little. For just a moment, his expression betrayed his surprise at Jazz’s impassioned reply.
“Public display would be bad for morale, Jazz. You are aware of that. Prime discouraged the adoption of formal mourning displays vorns ago. You and I are officers, we cannot show…”
“Show that we have sparks?” Jazz vented a sigh of his own. He shook his helm, turning his back on the water for a moment, letting his visored optics sweep past Prowl and settle on the city behind him. “You want to know why here? Why this place out of all the invitations we get? They could have given up centuries ago. Some folks think they should have. There are entire floors of their buildings that have sunk into the mud. Venice floods every year and every year they mop up the mess and go on. That bell tower we saw this evening? It collapsed, you know. A pile of rubble left, that’s it. Look at it now.”
“A street can be cleaned. A bell tower can be rebuilt, restored. A human life cannot.”
Jazz sighed again, shaking his head. “Do you know how many times Venice has been struck by pestilence? Sickness?” He turned back to the lagoon. “There’s a whole island out there, a mausoleum for their dead. And the city is still here.”
Prowl folded his arms across his bumper, his door wings angling forward in unconscious self-protection. His expression was still neutral but his optics as dim as Jazz had ever seen them. He spoke quietly, in a comm-tone that rang with pain.
“Is that all we are now, Jazz? All we have become? An endless source of death and disaster? A plague on humanity?”
The question gave him pause. Jazz felt his frame shake, his instinctive denial dying on his vocalisor. Klicks passed before he could speak. Even then he wasn’t sure what he would say.
“I don’t know,” he admitted, his comm tone quiet and sad. “Maybe we are. But I do know one thing: if so, they’ll survive us. Humans are resilient, Prowl. They have to be. They fight back. And when they can’t, they grieve and they go on.”
“I don’t know if I have that strength.”
It was barely a whisper, a confession that Jazz would never have coaxed out of his companion on the Ark, or even within a hundred miles of another Cybertronian. Jazz sighed, leaning towards Prowl, not quite touching but close enough to offer his understanding and support.
“You’re strong enough. Never doubt it. But if you don’t bend, you’re going to break, Prowler. Sometimes we all have to admit that. Sometimes there’s nothing we can do but mourn and learn to go on.”
Jazz shivered, his reaction nothing to do with the chill air. Once again, he felt the weight he carried in subspace, wondering whether his companion would thank him for it.
“And yeah. There’s another reason I brought you here.” Slowly, he reached into subspace, drawing out the box he’d carried since collecting it at the airport. “Those masks the folks here wear? You know they have meanings, right? Some of them about showing who you really are. Some of them about hiding it, and being who you need to be instead.”
Prowl didn’t answer, he just watched with curiosity and caution in equal part as Jazz placed the box on the stone pavement between them and drew out the first of its contents.
It hadn’t been easy to get. The local crafts guild had been resistant to the idea at first, and then over-exuberant once they took to it, threatening to stray from Jazz’s careful designs. Even now he wasn’t sure what to expect. There’d been no time before now to inspect his acquisitions, and somehow that felt right. The first time he and Prowl saw his creations, it should be together.
The humans of Venice and their numerous guests wore masks of papier mache and plaster. On a Cybertronian scale, such materials would collapse under their own weight. The metal sheet replacing them was thin but rigid, shaped to Jazz’s exacting instructions. Its decorations were unfamiliar in style, glass beads, swirls of ribbon and painted feathers hand-placed by traditional Venician craftsmen. Despite that, the pattern they formed was the one he’d requested, specifying every detail.
Jazz’s vents caught, and he heard Prowl’s falter as he glimpsed the mask. Slowly, Jazz raised it to his faceplate, feeling the magnets catch as it slotted into place between the rims of his helm. The light from his visor was trapped, reshaped, spilling from two optic-shaped holes. They pierced a black background, and on it, an ornate pattern of silver stars.
Once, he’d have etched the symbols in his paint work: one star for the sun Cybertron lost, one for each spark that had touched his and since returned to the Well. That time felt eons past. He’d stopped adopting formal mourning marks even before the shift to battle armour made the etching harder, more painful. He wasn’t alone. No one had room on their frame to count the sparks that guttered since the war began. Even if they could, Prowl’s argument rang with dangerous truth - the Autobots shouldn’t see their officers grieving, ravaged by their losses and wondering why they had survived… and whether they had any right to.
Raising his helm, Jazz looked out through a mask adorned with two hundred and twenty seven stars - one for each human life sacrificed to their endless war - and knew he was doing the right thing.
“I wear a mask every day, Prowl. Just like you. We do it because the people we care for need to see us being strong.” He paused, venting a sight. “Tomorrow, we’ll go home. We’ll be what they need us to be, and we’ll keep going for however long it takes.” He shook his helm, one servo rising to touch the star-strewn mask. “But here and now… just for tonight… I’ll wear a mask of my own choosing. This is what I need.”
The box lay open between them, a second carnival mask peering out from its depths. Prowl’s door-wings quivered. His faceplates twisted, still trying to hide the pain he daren’t show. Then he reached down.
“Yes,” he agreed, voice soft.
The mask clicked into place, the twin of Jazz’s and shaped with equal care to the helm of its wearer.
Prowl’s door-wings were trembling, the masked figure displaying an open grief that the Autobots’ second in command never could. Jazz felt his own frame shiver, his leg struts weakened by the strength of an emotion he’d kept submerged beneath his concern for Prowl. A sob caught in his vocalisor, a hint of a keen beneath it.
Prowl needed no prompting to reach again into the box. Drawing out the heavy black velvet cloak that had lain beneath his mask, he studied it for a moment before nodding and placing it around Jazz’s shoulders. Silent, solemn, he allowed Jazz to return the gesture, keeping his door-wings lowered as his companion adjusted the last swathe of tailored fabric around them.
“Thank you.”
There was no need for Prowl to say anything more. Masked in night, Jazz leaned in to his companion’s side, his keens still soft but audible now, releasing the grief he’d kept bottled inside. His arm slipping around Jazz’s shoulders, Prowl shook, acknowledging his pain, letting it slip away and taking strength from the moment.
Their anonymity was an illusion, paper thin, symbolic at best.
For one night, one brief respite in this endless war, it was enough.
The End