When Wise Mechs are Banished -- Jazz
Title: When Wise Mechs are Banished -- Jazz
Word Count: 1416
Summary: Prequel to Where Wise Mechs Fear to Tread. How and why Jazz was sentenced to base 84G1-07MVE-VR5E.
Rating: T
JAZZ
“Because of your failure on the field, and because we cannot risk another such failure, Jazz, I am removing you from active duty.”
Words. Looping, over and over. What had happened? Something bad. His partner. Team mate. Friend. Shot down. Bad information. Old information. A traitor.
Yes... A traitor... Someone had told. The Decepticons knew. They were waiting. Farshot. Standing in front of the enemy. Run fast! Run hard! Run and get out and get back and live!
Blasters. A shout. Energon. Then running. Running. Pedes hitting the floor. Spark pulsing. A big blur.
Then the base. The commander. Jazz, off the field. Behind a desk. Wandering. Lost. Forgotten.
Coward, Jazz whispered to himself. You ran. You ran. Left Farshot. Farshot died. Now stuck. Can't go out. Can't avenge him. Can't do anything.
And Jazz was stuck. He had been stuck on desk duty. Told the risk of having him go out again was too great. As though he was the traitor.
Not a traitor. Betrayed. Left for dead. Now denied any chance of revenge. Stuck in a place where he couldn't move. Suffocating. Dying. Still. He was rusting. Thoughts were poisoning his processors and frame.
Motion. Moving. Keep thoughts at bay. Actions take away the pain. Distraction. Bury it.
And there was always pain. Always lingering there, deep in his spark. Drifting. Happily, sometimes. Content. Other times, alone and forgotten.
Pain, when his creators had been violently deactivated. Polyhex. Energon spattered on walls. Shattered chassis. Gray frames. Wailing. Who was crying? A note. They didn't pay - so they paid with their sparks.
On the streets. Energon processing tank empty. Aching. Armor scratched. Shifty optics. Dirty energon. Poison. Careful. Wary. Skittish and twitchy. Moving.
Another city. Where was it? Always moving. Searching. Searching for... something. Something that didn't want to be found. Lost. Wandering. Dirty. Hungry.
More cities, more time. Always hungry. Always scratched. Always dirty. Where was home? Did he have a home?
Lost. Pain in the spark. Digging deep, never letting go. Cold, dark claws, staining his spark and processors. The world spinning, and him racing to catch up. Scrambling. Left behind.
The war. Even more pain. More loss. Friends. Comrades. Fighting for something... he didn't know what. Not anymore. Or did he ever?
Finding anchors. His friends. Laughing at and with.
Prowl. The biggest anchor. Friend. Then lover. Close. Closeness. Love. Family. Someone who finally tied him down and made him think. Stopped the drifting. Held him close. The thing he had been searching for.
Prowl was an anchor. Solid. Reliable. Steady and smart and whole. They held each other down, down to reality. The little smiles. The quiet moments spent between breems, hidden from friends and comrades.
Then breaking it off. I’m afraid, Prowl had said. Afraid that if we do this any longer, we won't be able to go back. It's a war. We cannot risk ourselves. Maybe once it is finished. I love you, Jazz. Too much.
Agreeing. Letting go. Requesting new assignments. Forgetting the black and white.
The world turning gray again. Black and white bled together. Falling. Floating. Drifting. Lost. New faces. New assignments.
Energon on his claws. Sparks guttering out. Dying flickers of energy on plating. His plating. Scorched. Burned. Dead mechs at his pedes.
Small anchors. Little friendships. Farshot. Vicious. Efficient. Kind. Caring. Anchor. A memory flickered in Jazz's processor. Prowl.
The mission. Data retrieval. Assassination. Simple. Easy.
Traitor. Enemies waiting. Farshot dead. Processed energon. Blasters. Pain.
The base. “Removing you from active duty.” Behind a desk. Datapads. Mission briefs. Alone. Farshot was gone. Everyone else... simple shells moved by a distant puppeteer. Purposeless. Barren, desolate frames.
That horrible feeling of emptiness. He was a devoid of life. A puppet like his comrades.
Jazz was stuck. Floating in his own processor, lost within his own thought processes.
There was too much energy running through his circuits. Too many thoughts in his CPU. Too much. Not enough. Datapads. Glyphs. No motion. Stagnant. Suffocating. Stillness.
Stillness was okay during missions. The anticipation, the waiting... that was good.
This stillness. This doing nothing. This was the stuff Jazz's nightmares were made of. Motion was what he lived off. It's antithesis, stillness, was a poison in his frame. Leeching life out every second. Bleeding. Drained. Emptied until there was nothing left.
Dead and gone and lost and drifting until nothing but an empty husk and a spark that didn't pulse were left.
He coasted. Time passed. Close to a vorn, the glyphs told him. He didn't care. Didn't understand. Didn't want to.
Then the commander again. A different one. The other had died.
They were all dead, though. Puppets going through the motions of life.
The commander. Haunted optics. Clean, scratched, faded armor. Empty words.
“You waste resources. You've been transferred. You leave next orn. Pack your things, Jazz.”
Leaving? To where? And who was Jazz?
A blink behind the visor. The commander turned away. Jazz sat. He got his energon. Recharged. Returned to the desk. Sat.
The commander came.
“Where were you, Jazz? The shuttle is waiting! Come on. What? What do you mean, 'where are we going'? I told you last orn. You're... What do you mean you don't remember?”
Jazz followed. Steps echoing on metal walls. Walls. Closing in. Stagnant. Dying and rusting and drifting.
On a shuttle. It moved. The pilot tried talking. The words were distant, a buzzing, quiet and annoying and unintelligible to Jazz.
The pilot stopped talking. The ship moved. Jazz sat.
Still. Quiet. Cold. Empty.
The shuttle rocked. Jazz looked up. Listless. Uninterested. Physical reaction.
The shuttle stopped.
“We're here.”
Where was 'here'? Why were they 'here'?
“Jazz. It's time to get out.”
Out where?
Jazz stood. Walked. A puppet. Invisible strings. Pulled. Something...
His spark moved.
Such a small thing. No longer dying.
Black and white. Gray was separating. Black and white. Light and darkness. Hope and despair.
“Prowl?” Whispered words. Scared this apparition would disappear. “Prowl!”
Wide optics beneath a dim visor. Slow, stumbling steps. Don't disappear.
“Jazz?”
Prowl was surprised. Jazz was puzzled. Had they not told him he was coming? They were close enough to touch. Jazz lifted a hand. Fingers brushed thick chassis armor. Solid. Warm. Alive.
The tactician found himself with an armful of saboteur.
“Prowl, Prowl, Prowl,” the saboteur chanted. The tactician, his lifeline. Here.
A strange look. “Jazz, are you alright?”
“I... Prowl. Prowler.”
Prowler. That's what he called him. That little frown. Amused more than frustrated. A worry creased brow. “Jazz, what's wrong?”
“I don't know. Not anymore.” Whispers. Quiet.
“Oh, Jazz. What's happened to you?”
Happened? Right. He used to be full. Not empty. Bright. Not gray. Smiling, laughing. Still drifting, but alright with that. Not like this. Not falling. Not lost. Tainted memories cleared slightly. He hadn't always been this way. Had he? No. No. He couldn't have been.
“Come on, Jazz. Let's get you inside.”
The silver mech followed. Obedient. Unthinking.
That's what he did. He didn't think. Thinking hurt. No motion to stop it. No motion to counter, to balance. Didn't he used to question? Didn't he used to think? To wonder? To dream? Didn't he used to live?
A berth. Funny, he could feel it. Sheets. Warmth.
Warmth?
Yes, beside him. A mech. A solid body.
Anchor.
“Jazz. Lay down. Recharge.”
Jazz lay down. He recharged.
Prowl rested at his side.
Night was silent. Black and empty of thought. It passed quickly.
Morning. An alarm.
“Mm... Good morning, Jazz.”
Soft words. Quiet voice. Calm, but not dead. Still, but not poison.
Anchor. Solid, warm, steady. Dreams. Dreams come to life. Hope bloomed again. Hope and light and happiness.
“Prowler.”
“Are you back with me now, Jazz?”
Jazz blinked. “Was Ah gone?”
Prowl smiled. Softly, gently. “You were a bit out of your processor. What happened?”
Jazz was silent. “Lotsa things. Prowler... Promise me. Promise you'll never leave me 'gain.”
“Of course, Jazz. I promise.” Quiet. Sparkfelt. Honest and clear and bright. Arms tightened in a hug. Did they used to feel this good? A hug. This warm? This filling? “Now come. I will show you the base.”
Jazz stood. No longer drifting. Quiet, but not a poison. Clean. Safe. He had an anchor.
Prowl led the way to the door and palmed it open. “Welcome to the Pit, Jazz.”
The saboteur cocked a hidden optic ridge, feeling himself steadily returning, filling his frame. His spark sped up. Pulsing again. Warm. Alive. Full. “Trust me, Prowler. Ain't no more'a a Pit than Ah've already been through. This? This's gonna be heaven.”
Word Count: 1416
Summary: Prequel to Where Wise Mechs Fear to Tread. How and why Jazz was sentenced to base 84G1-07MVE-VR5E.
Rating: T
JAZZ
“Because of your failure on the field, and because we cannot risk another such failure, Jazz, I am removing you from active duty.”
Words. Looping, over and over. What had happened? Something bad. His partner. Team mate. Friend. Shot down. Bad information. Old information. A traitor.
Yes... A traitor... Someone had told. The Decepticons knew. They were waiting. Farshot. Standing in front of the enemy. Run fast! Run hard! Run and get out and get back and live!
Blasters. A shout. Energon. Then running. Running. Pedes hitting the floor. Spark pulsing. A big blur.
Then the base. The commander. Jazz, off the field. Behind a desk. Wandering. Lost. Forgotten.
Coward, Jazz whispered to himself. You ran. You ran. Left Farshot. Farshot died. Now stuck. Can't go out. Can't avenge him. Can't do anything.
And Jazz was stuck. He had been stuck on desk duty. Told the risk of having him go out again was too great. As though he was the traitor.
Not a traitor. Betrayed. Left for dead. Now denied any chance of revenge. Stuck in a place where he couldn't move. Suffocating. Dying. Still. He was rusting. Thoughts were poisoning his processors and frame.
Motion. Moving. Keep thoughts at bay. Actions take away the pain. Distraction. Bury it.
And there was always pain. Always lingering there, deep in his spark. Drifting. Happily, sometimes. Content. Other times, alone and forgotten.
Pain, when his creators had been violently deactivated. Polyhex. Energon spattered on walls. Shattered chassis. Gray frames. Wailing. Who was crying? A note. They didn't pay - so they paid with their sparks.
On the streets. Energon processing tank empty. Aching. Armor scratched. Shifty optics. Dirty energon. Poison. Careful. Wary. Skittish and twitchy. Moving.
Another city. Where was it? Always moving. Searching. Searching for... something. Something that didn't want to be found. Lost. Wandering. Dirty. Hungry.
More cities, more time. Always hungry. Always scratched. Always dirty. Where was home? Did he have a home?
Lost. Pain in the spark. Digging deep, never letting go. Cold, dark claws, staining his spark and processors. The world spinning, and him racing to catch up. Scrambling. Left behind.
The war. Even more pain. More loss. Friends. Comrades. Fighting for something... he didn't know what. Not anymore. Or did he ever?
Finding anchors. His friends. Laughing at and with.
Prowl. The biggest anchor. Friend. Then lover. Close. Closeness. Love. Family. Someone who finally tied him down and made him think. Stopped the drifting. Held him close. The thing he had been searching for.
Prowl was an anchor. Solid. Reliable. Steady and smart and whole. They held each other down, down to reality. The little smiles. The quiet moments spent between breems, hidden from friends and comrades.
Then breaking it off. I’m afraid, Prowl had said. Afraid that if we do this any longer, we won't be able to go back. It's a war. We cannot risk ourselves. Maybe once it is finished. I love you, Jazz. Too much.
Agreeing. Letting go. Requesting new assignments. Forgetting the black and white.
The world turning gray again. Black and white bled together. Falling. Floating. Drifting. Lost. New faces. New assignments.
Energon on his claws. Sparks guttering out. Dying flickers of energy on plating. His plating. Scorched. Burned. Dead mechs at his pedes.
Small anchors. Little friendships. Farshot. Vicious. Efficient. Kind. Caring. Anchor. A memory flickered in Jazz's processor. Prowl.
The mission. Data retrieval. Assassination. Simple. Easy.
Traitor. Enemies waiting. Farshot dead. Processed energon. Blasters. Pain.
The base. “Removing you from active duty.” Behind a desk. Datapads. Mission briefs. Alone. Farshot was gone. Everyone else... simple shells moved by a distant puppeteer. Purposeless. Barren, desolate frames.
That horrible feeling of emptiness. He was a devoid of life. A puppet like his comrades.
Jazz was stuck. Floating in his own processor, lost within his own thought processes.
There was too much energy running through his circuits. Too many thoughts in his CPU. Too much. Not enough. Datapads. Glyphs. No motion. Stagnant. Suffocating. Stillness.
Stillness was okay during missions. The anticipation, the waiting... that was good.
This stillness. This doing nothing. This was the stuff Jazz's nightmares were made of. Motion was what he lived off. It's antithesis, stillness, was a poison in his frame. Leeching life out every second. Bleeding. Drained. Emptied until there was nothing left.
Dead and gone and lost and drifting until nothing but an empty husk and a spark that didn't pulse were left.
He coasted. Time passed. Close to a vorn, the glyphs told him. He didn't care. Didn't understand. Didn't want to.
Then the commander again. A different one. The other had died.
They were all dead, though. Puppets going through the motions of life.
The commander. Haunted optics. Clean, scratched, faded armor. Empty words.
“You waste resources. You've been transferred. You leave next orn. Pack your things, Jazz.”
Leaving? To where? And who was Jazz?
A blink behind the visor. The commander turned away. Jazz sat. He got his energon. Recharged. Returned to the desk. Sat.
The commander came.
“Where were you, Jazz? The shuttle is waiting! Come on. What? What do you mean, 'where are we going'? I told you last orn. You're... What do you mean you don't remember?”
Jazz followed. Steps echoing on metal walls. Walls. Closing in. Stagnant. Dying and rusting and drifting.
On a shuttle. It moved. The pilot tried talking. The words were distant, a buzzing, quiet and annoying and unintelligible to Jazz.
The pilot stopped talking. The ship moved. Jazz sat.
Still. Quiet. Cold. Empty.
The shuttle rocked. Jazz looked up. Listless. Uninterested. Physical reaction.
The shuttle stopped.
“We're here.”
Where was 'here'? Why were they 'here'?
“Jazz. It's time to get out.”
Out where?
Jazz stood. Walked. A puppet. Invisible strings. Pulled. Something...
His spark moved.
Such a small thing. No longer dying.
Black and white. Gray was separating. Black and white. Light and darkness. Hope and despair.
“Prowl?” Whispered words. Scared this apparition would disappear. “Prowl!”
Wide optics beneath a dim visor. Slow, stumbling steps. Don't disappear.
“Jazz?”
Prowl was surprised. Jazz was puzzled. Had they not told him he was coming? They were close enough to touch. Jazz lifted a hand. Fingers brushed thick chassis armor. Solid. Warm. Alive.
The tactician found himself with an armful of saboteur.
“Prowl, Prowl, Prowl,” the saboteur chanted. The tactician, his lifeline. Here.
A strange look. “Jazz, are you alright?”
“I... Prowl. Prowler.”
Prowler. That's what he called him. That little frown. Amused more than frustrated. A worry creased brow. “Jazz, what's wrong?”
“I don't know. Not anymore.” Whispers. Quiet.
“Oh, Jazz. What's happened to you?”
Happened? Right. He used to be full. Not empty. Bright. Not gray. Smiling, laughing. Still drifting, but alright with that. Not like this. Not falling. Not lost. Tainted memories cleared slightly. He hadn't always been this way. Had he? No. No. He couldn't have been.
“Come on, Jazz. Let's get you inside.”
The silver mech followed. Obedient. Unthinking.
That's what he did. He didn't think. Thinking hurt. No motion to stop it. No motion to counter, to balance. Didn't he used to question? Didn't he used to think? To wonder? To dream? Didn't he used to live?
A berth. Funny, he could feel it. Sheets. Warmth.
Warmth?
Yes, beside him. A mech. A solid body.
Anchor.
“Jazz. Lay down. Recharge.”
Jazz lay down. He recharged.
Prowl rested at his side.
Night was silent. Black and empty of thought. It passed quickly.
Morning. An alarm.
“Mm... Good morning, Jazz.”
Soft words. Quiet voice. Calm, but not dead. Still, but not poison.
Anchor. Solid, warm, steady. Dreams. Dreams come to life. Hope bloomed again. Hope and light and happiness.
“Prowler.”
“Are you back with me now, Jazz?”
Jazz blinked. “Was Ah gone?”
Prowl smiled. Softly, gently. “You were a bit out of your processor. What happened?”
Jazz was silent. “Lotsa things. Prowler... Promise me. Promise you'll never leave me 'gain.”
“Of course, Jazz. I promise.” Quiet. Sparkfelt. Honest and clear and bright. Arms tightened in a hug. Did they used to feel this good? A hug. This warm? This filling? “Now come. I will show you the base.”
Jazz stood. No longer drifting. Quiet, but not a poison. Clean. Safe. He had an anchor.
Prowl led the way to the door and palmed it open. “Welcome to the Pit, Jazz.”
The saboteur cocked a hidden optic ridge, feeling himself steadily returning, filling his frame. His spark sped up. Pulsing again. Warm. Alive. Full. “Trust me, Prowler. Ain't no more'a a Pit than Ah've already been through. This? This's gonna be heaven.”