Archive of Our Own ^beta

Death is a part of revolution. This is an inexorable fact. Whether the current government’s death or that of those attempting to dismantle it, something, someone was going to be gone at the end. Thus, it was a very pressing issue for every side of a revolution to not be that someone.

As Sun Tzu said: “If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.”

“You’ve done a very good job, Meister.” Ohhhhhhh, she was fragged. In more ways than one, ironically.

Jazz should have seen the warning signs after she began to really settle down and relax. Confidence means nothing if you don’t have something to back it up with, and stagnating for too long always took away your grit and the tension of life and death, the things you need in her line of work. You can’t treat it like a game, despite how tempting it is after a while. Being a spy isn’t an office job after all.

The Ludus wasn’t an organization that asked questions though, so Jazz really could just blame them for the lack of oversight if she wanted. She wouldn’t, but she could. Being a careful spy was her domain, not theirs. Not falling in love was her domain. She couldn’t be the best at everything though.

Really though, the catastrophe started precisely 2 decacycles ago, when she did something completely normal and exceptionally underestimated the risk of everything.

Jazz was sitting exhausted in a penthouse, humming along to some music and mentally patting herself on the back for the good job she’d done just a few cycles ago, while also wishing for a change of scene.

Rumblings of civil war were everywhere at the moment, and while Jazz hadn’t been paying much attention, she had to admit she was starting to get tired of it all. 6 jobs in one month? Absolute slagging insanity, and Jazz was feeling the deep ache to switch things up she always did after too many things at once. So maybe that was why she made the stupid decision she did. After all, a request for a fancy, personal and downright theatrical ‘accident’, after extracting some information the old-fashioned way? She almost thought it was too good to be true.

Turns out, it was.

/\/\/\

1 Decacycle ago-

Jazz was leaning back in her office chair when the message came in, relaxing her sore mechano-muscles and basking in the joy that was the aftermath of a nice oil shower. There was a time for reflection after every ‘workout’, pushing her sentio-metallico to its limit and then trudging over to down 3 cubes of Energon and clean off the de-saturated fuel and oil that seeped out of her joints.

Now, all she had to do was sit by the RadioComputer for the allotted hour. She sighed and settled her hand on the smooth skin-plates of her stomach, massaging them for a moment before reaching for the datacable connected to a file-Reservoir. A quick plug into her arm, and she once again leaned back, the comforting sounds of Polyhexian Tjamge sounding in her audial ears as if it was ambient.

It was a daily ritual, something everyone who wanted to stay in business with The Ludus kept up with. 3 out of 10 cycles, you sat at a low-band radio for one joor, with the exception for those on contract. Then, accept or do not at your discretion, but make that decision within a cycle, Glory to The Ludus etc etc.

Really, I could use a break. Jazz mused, sparing a look towards the minimally furnished room around her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had someone over to be friendly, even for a night or an occasion of a more salacious nature. Hadn’t gone out except to find or extract secrets, and despite the luxury and convenience of an adjoining Gym and workout station in her penthouse, she was missing that community that came from stretching and strengthening real muscles; Finagling into a small space in a military encampment, disguising her plating to get into an apartment complex, anything really. She sighed.

There’s always Blaster, or just going to the ‘Manifold… Jazz’s mind began to drift for a moment, and she slowly blinked, like a cat. Then she grinned to herself. Or we can always go to the Bov-

Bit-bit-bit. The radio began it’s four note speech, and Jazz sat up immediately to pause her music, all thoughts previous gone. It was a warning signal, and the only one. Jazz plugged the Radio into the Computer, booted up the decryption program, and leaned back again. All the usual routine, in 3 steps.

First, exactly a breem after the warning signal, base-4 quaternary code would then be transmitted for exactly a breem.

Second, that code would be fed into the specialized decryption program, which would identify it as a key.

Third, the various contracts would be listed in a cipher, to be decoded by that cycle’s key. Whoever got there first got the contract.

Jazz waited, twirling in her chair as the encryption key filed in. A few key presses on the computer and it was ready for the contracts. Another half-breem and she leaned forward with a small pout, puffing her cheeks as information began to fill the screen.

Good New Cycle.

New Contracts: 7

Begin?

Jazz stared for a moment, more than a little surprised. 7 was tied for the old record. She shifted in her seat, the wires and gyros in her waist beginning to cramp, and she turned the gear selector to [y] after a brief moment. In large, blocky glyphs, a contract list populated.

Boring contract one, boring contract two, number three sounded fun but was too specific, someone else might like it. Four… Jazz hummed the melody from a moment ago. Maybe, that one could also be fun. Then the next two were just as boring as the first two. Jazz tapped the computer’s continue button, and the final file populated.

Target: Political/Military Figure

Designation: Prowl

Occupation: “Autobot” faction lead tactician.

Description: 15’ tall white and red Praxian enforcer model frame, usual secondary vestigial sensor wings. Possible personality disorder and lack of emotional investment observed. Tactical augment of particular importance.

Contract Details: Extraction of classified knowledge held by target and termination thereafter. Possible forcible hardline extraction required. Further information given upon acceptance of contract.

That interested Jazz. Termination requests weren’t uncommon, but they definitely weren’t Jazz’s style. Add a lack of emotional investment, but maybe a hardline too, and seduction was an almost required prerequisite to it, especially for tacticians those paranoid mechs. Almost a challenge, and Jazz laughed to herself at the thought. Not to mention, a Praxian. They weren’t rare per se, but they weren’t common either, especially after that one accident that leveled half the city-state. Jazz felt a pulse of sadness at the thought of having to kill this strange mech. He might just be innocent.

But still, it was the most interesting contract by far. Shrugging internally, Jazz waited for all code to quiet on the input and began to send her own message. {Con 7 Acc ID 13-5-9-19-20-5-18, Further Requested} Now to wait for more information.

One thing Jazz often thought of while she was waiting for a contract was terminology. Technically, she liked to say, she was not a ‘spy’. It was a word almost rude in it’s very origin, like she was nosy. No, Jazz was a Saboteur. Something slick and polished, very different. Or at least, Jazz thought so.

It wasn’t right to say that she felt nothing about the whole job either, rather that after years seeing the situation of politics in Iacon, on Cybertron in general, she’d come to a simple conclusion, one easily come to when you’re sparked into a lower-class family: this slag was fragged, and cleanup was needed.

Then her mind wandered again. This time, depending on the type of kill required, she might be able to get some real practice in. After all, it was going to be a lot harder to have a clean kill and extract with Mr. “No Emotional Investment.” Jazz rolled her optics, tapping the desk. She’d bet a hundred shiny shanix that the bastard was just an ordinary asshole.

Whatever he was, a transmission was coming in, and Jazz scooted closer as a file quickly downloaded onto the bent and square screen of the computer. Jazz opened it instantly, her typical curiosity getting the better of her, and began to read.

“Mission objective is to retrieve list of Tactical officers and Autobot Upper Intelligence officers. Hardline possibly required. Subject with information is likely high in the relatively informal rank of command of the organization, but informants have been unable to confirm or deny. Termination afterwards required. Freedom in method allowed for both tasks. Completion required within 2 decacycles of contract acceptance. Visuals attached with known habits and movements.” Finally, that was what Jazz needed, and she eagerly scrolled down. Let’s get a look at you, shall we?

Unfortunately for Jazz, she had been expecting something that just wasn’t there: Some grumpy and humorless old officer that had been doing the job for generations at that point, his wires melding into his leg servos with the sheer weight of holding up an entire anti-revolutionary state militia. Instead, Jazz was treated to a frankly stunning Praxian femme, that could have been doing acting in those Auteur Net Films or advertisements the way that plating condensed at the hips and rounded outward and up in a way Jazz couldn’t deny, looked both graceful and purposeful. Abdominal plating smooth and even somewhat thin compared to the shoulder plating above, a fair and generous chassis too. Jazz spent a moment just admiring the frame, the pure aesthetics of her, then swept her gaze to the optics.

That was where Jazz’s admiration tempered slightly. A stern, almost cutting face-plate with a deep-seated contempt in the optics, like she held a grudge with the photographer. Just the face-plate itself was almost interrogative, like a single stare would lay bare all thoughts in its path. Jazz’s glossa darted over her lips in concentration, considering the benefits and detriments, the odds for any approach. Maybe it would be easier to just rip the information straight from her processor… But.

Jazz had been doing that for more than a month now. Besides, if that mech didn’t have a thousand firewalls just in case, Jazz was a Nite-owl. She could use that to her advantage, get in when it was dark.

Getting close was harder, but getting close was more fun. Stretching her back, Jazz put the music back on and got to work researching, a little spark of nervous excitement and anticipation at finally doing something different.

Just like taking contracts, executing them was a three step process. Not always a long one, but when Jazz didn’t have a pressing time limit, she took her time. She might have been (self-admittedly) a little overconfident but she wasn’t stupid.

So Jazz researched. She studied the habits of her targets, who they worked for, any person they had even glanced at in the last month. Jazz allowed herself a feral grin as she stretched her mechanical joints, ready to begin. Time to work.

/\/\/\

“FRAG!!” Jazz furiously hurled a throwing knife into a target, specifically a datapad that had been destroyed a few dozen throws ago, but still bore the face of that afthole Prowl. Shoulders hunched, Jazz shallowly panted, and stormed over to retrieve the blades from their temporary home.

It was three cycles past, and Jazz was beginning to despair that there was any single way to get close enough to Prowl to even get a look at her. She’d put out tendrils to every contact she had, any mention whatsoever or Prowl doing anything outside of the massive complex that was the base of operations for the ‘Autobots’. Nothing. She huffed louder, and impulsively ran outside, feeling a walk would do her good. Anything to distract.

She had been getting very frustrated, hence the datapad. So of course, Primus managed to help her in the most inconvenient way possible.

/\/\/\

“Blaster!” Jazz waved across the street, grinning at the mech in question.

“Jazz!” Blaster hurried over, vents huffing as he ran over to her. “What are you doing out and about? I’d expect you’d have work, no?”

Jazz’s smile tightened. “I do have work, but I’ve been at it for three cycles straight, I came here to get some fresh air, walk around.”

“Sounds good to me.” Blaster shrugged, and started walking with Jazz, headed down the crowded sidewalk full of the daily mechs and femmes, stressed and unable or unwilling to afford the alt-mode highways to their destinations. “Hey, are you doing anything tomorrow? I saw my mech around the ‘Fold recently.”

“’Your’ Mech?” Jazz laughed, swatting Blaster’s shoulder lightheartedly. “You meet a mech once and suddenly he’s yours?”

Blaster at least had the good decency to look mildly guilty, but an excited grin still graced both of their faceplates. “I’m telling you, you have got to see him! He’s got cassettes, he’s smart, great chassis-”

Jazz rolled her optics, a stray spark of static discharging as she responded dryly, feeling the familiar flow of conversation with Blaster begin practically from where it left off.

Blaster was one of Jazz’s few true friends. None of those few knew what she actually did for work, each of them had assumed something and kept believing that, but despite it Jazz told them practically everything else; Blaster was no different. He worked as a musician and DJ, nightclubs mostly, and was currently attempting to woo a regular customer. It was not working.

“...But anyway, are you available?” Blaster finished his rant and looked hopefully at Jazz.

“No clue.” She shrugged, keeping her gaze forward. “I don’t know how… work is going to go.”

She tapered off, craning her neck cables. She could have sworn she just saw a red chevron.

“Well, comm me if you do please?” Blaster asked, and Jazz nodded absently, still looking.

“Yeah, of course, uhm, I just got a comm from work. I have to… go.” Jazz whirled and looked at Blaster, who had a knowing look on his faceplate. “I’ll see you again soon?”

“Of course! Be sure to Comm Bee by the way, he’s got some friends he wants you to meet.” Jazz was barely paying attention, and Blaster knew it. “Jazz?”

“Will do Blast!” Jazz flashed a quick grin and began moving, walking backwards. “See you later!”

“Later!” Blaster chuckled, crossing the street while waving goodbye, but Jazz had already turned and started running. There was no doubt in her mind, that had been her target. That had been Prowl.

Jazz pushed through the crowded street, annoyed glances and the occasional Hey! Watch it slagger- continually chasing after her just as she chased the red chevron. It disappeared for a moment, and Jazz slowed down, vents huffing as she leaned against the wall, hunched over for but a moment. Then she straightened out and caught another glimpse and jumped back into movement.

“Excus-Sorry,” “Slow down!” “I know, very sorry-” Jazz was getting closer. She could feel it, could see the slowing of the chevron as it floated from place to place, vanishing behind helms and other chevrons for moments but then appearing again.

Finally, Jazz stopped. But only because she’d hit a building sized block, a one-way street that allowed in the red horns but was too unfamiliar for Jazz to follow. She took in a deep vent, pushing her back against the alley next to it.

It’s useless to go in where we don’t know. Jazz reminded herself. Nothing wrong with waiting for the same time next deca-cycle.

Jazz peeked over the side of the alley. Frag. It’s an event center. That meant two things; 1, limited event, no waiting until 10 cycles later. 2, the time. 1400. 3 joors to rush hour, and while Jazz was one of the best spies alive that didn’t mean that she’d be able to keep track of a mech in the middle of that mess. Again, best spy, not best tracker.

Either go now and risk discovery, risk the rush, or risk the deadline. No problem. Jazz could be patient. Very patient.

She was less patient with a deadline. In-venting slowly, she fully routed around the corner and entered the building, optics scanning from side to side, watching for a single set of optics that stared too long. Anything that focused like it was watching. A sign said Free Entrance! Enjoy The Lectures!

The inside was startlingly old-fashioned, the setting like an academic institution and rooms with auditoriums to match. Classic grey-brown-white walls, the strange and unnecessarily high ceiling that condensed into tall hallways in maze-like directions, doors interspersed around inside as far as Jazz could see down. A few stray mechs meandered around the space, and Jazz just walked past into the first hallway in front of her, praying to Primus that nobody stopped her to ask anything.

It had to be a lecture. There wasn’t much in the file about Prowl’s specific personality traits besides the possible emotional inhibition, but from Jazz’s reckoning, it was because Prowl was one of the truly smart ones. The smart ones are always trying to learn more, and Jazz liked to stop that quickly. In some self-aggrandizing part of herself, she didn’t want anyone knowing too much more than her.

Jazz peeked into the first open door, scanning for a chevron. It was empty.

Second open door, filled halfway as a Polyhexian droned boringly onwards about “-the tropical institution that is along the equator of Cybertron can be attributed to-” Nope.

Third open door, occupied by only by a few strays waiting. No chevron among them.

It was the fourth door, a lecture hall, a mech walking onstage as Jazz scanned the audience, and there it was. The chevron. Attached to her target. Jazz sidled in-between the rows of seats, the mech on the stage giving a beaming smile to the audience. Jazz watched Prowl. The other femme was rigid in her chair, leaned back just enough to appear comfortable, a datapad in her lap.

“Hey all!” The speaker began, and Jazz just watched, moving over a seat to the left, until it was the perfect angle. She could watch the presentation, the back of Prowl’s helm, and her datapad at the same time. She settled back and began to listen.

“This, I hope you all know, is a short lecture on the use of Cybertronian biology, or rather lack thereof, in greater tactical applications for hand-to-hand combat and socio-psychological examinations.” The speaker chuckled a little bit after that. “Thrilling, I know. But let’s start! It’s not too stodgy, I promise.”

“We, the Cybertronian species, are almost a techno-organic race, in that we really possess no actual biological form, though some have debated that sparks may count as such, but we have evolved to possess traits more commonly associated with a species.” A slideshow appeared, and a few were clicked through rapidly. Prowl was writing quickly, bullet points and longer paragraphs. Jazz was bored already.

“For example, take the mechano-muscles. About half a million vorns ago, it would be folly to think that the load-bearing structures and power reinforcements within a simply arm could be improved. Your frame was your frame, and though highly modular, it was still exceptionally limiting in terms of ability.” The speaker continued. “100 thousand vorns later, and we have developed essentially what we would today call mechano-muscles: Fibers of sentio-metallico that use a technique of breaking apart and re-collecting with conversion from Energon. Basic Cybertronian biology! Now-”

Jazz was beginning to doze off. It was probably very interesting to Prowl at the 50 other mechs around but Primus was it just so simply boring. “-now, there’s also the phenomenon of femmes. There is a common myth, often repeated that femmes were the first alternate frame type, after one of the first Primes began experimenting with them. However, this is not true. In fact, both common mechs and femmes are offshoots from a more solidly hermaphroditic race of Cybertronians, which are also the origin of our t-cogs and helped construct our alt-modes-”

Jazz got up slowly, she didn’t want to disturb everyone else, least of all Prowl. But she needed to look at her face-plate, possibly give herself a pep-talk, and get some Energon. She’d burned all of her post-workout of the day already, and the fuel warning at 30% was not reassuring. Out the door and to the left, where she’d noticed a courtesy fridge for the people attending the talks.

It took only a few moments to locate it, about chest height and perfect for Jazz to hook an arm over and rest on, staring forward into the street out the entrace. Giant windows framed the entrance of the building, decorative inlays and words that advertised the usefulness of the convention center. Sighing, she downed a cube.

This really was the worst option to take, She thought. Completely stupid. Primus would cry at her stupidity. Another cube was warranted, and she drained it again. Back to 96%. Resigned, she set the two down on the formidable stack already on top of the fridge and turned to leave. Unfortunately, that meant looking ahead; and looking ahead, there was someone leaning against the wall who absolutely shouldn’t have been there.

“You were following me.” Jazz froze, mouth open in genuine surprise; because there she was. Prowl, and, wow the pictures did not do her justice. Arms crossed, stock still and staring at Jazz, helm ever so slightly tilted as if Jazz was a particularly interesting bug.

“Huh?” Jazz processor was short circuiting. Not a common occurrence, but she had to marvel for a second at the purely smooth and effortlessly easy way that Prowl must have moved behind her, and how smooth her frame was and wow she was beautiful in the same way a knife was, sharp curves and soft edges everywhere and Jazz mentally shut herself up because that was not a good tangent to be on.

“Your step pattern was synced up to mine, I noticed as I entered and heard you hesitate. Common behavior for people following other mechs. Who are you?” Prowl’s optics were bright blue and piercing in way that Jazz hoped would somehow be mitigated by her visor, but were still making her processor race. Shit. Improvise. DO SOMETHING!!

“The des is Jazz, I was just going to the same talk, no idea what you’re talking about!!” Jazz winced internally but kept up the confused act. Not the best off of the top of her head, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that for a single moment, Prowl paused. Perfect, she was on the back-pede, now to press-

“You’re lying.” Prowl announced flatly, a single arm swinging up to poke a digit accusingly at Jazz, and somehow that singular motion was more threatening than anything Jazz had seen in years, like a rifle pointed at her visor and through to her optics. Jazz held up her hands in protest, but Prowl forged forward, a tiny ripple of motion launching her from her place leaning to standing in front of Jazz, digit still pointed and sharp. “You’re hiding something.”

“Wha-?” Jazz cut herself off, scheming furiously, processor still whirring in revolutions of unseen speeds. “No, I- You see-”

“What?” Prowl advanced, and Jazz took half a step back, holding up her arms as if in defense. Shit. Jazz knew she had the ability to bullshit well, but it was usually under circumstances where she actually had control of what was going on. Here, this was the wild west of operational security, and she needed to act now. Unfortunately for her, and the looming Praxian, she jumped to the first thought she’d had when she saw Prowl in that file.

“I just thought you were really hot and wanted to ask you for your comm code!” Jazz blurted out, and for a moment, she mentally despaired. That was probably the worst idea-wait. Prowl had stopped moving, intake open and Jazz realized Oh no, this is a great idea. It’s true, awkward, and I don’t even have to act; Jazz surrendered to her own embarrassment and chagrin, muttering the usual invocation of stress: “Primus.”

“...Ah.” Jazz winced, barely withstanding the embarrassment, very aware that a few loitering mechs in the wings were probably listening with great curiosity. She took a peak at Prowl, and wow, that was a deep blue she didn’t think had ever been before, the tactician’s face-plate very flushed, and a series of shapes being slowly mouthed silently. Yikes, she’s not used to being wrong. Well, half wrong. Jazz felt her own face-plate flushing.

Finally, Prowl managed to mumble something out. “Thank… you…?”

The words came out like Prowl was extremely unused to saying them, and Jazz decided that was a perfect time to make an exit, she could just run away easily enough, just a few hundred miles away, and then she’d gladly just break into the Autobot complex and find Prowl herself, much much easier and she didn’t have to do this ever again- Jazz began to inch away from Prowl, not looking at the femme at all before breaking into a full sprint, right out the door, whirling around the end of door and back into the alley she’d been in before. Frag.

Jazz strained to listen at all for a sound. A signal, anything that might say that Prowl was on her way to confront her, ask more questions, pry. Did she think it would happen? Absolutely not, especially with that hue of blue, and to Unicron with it, Jazz had to fix some defective part of her processor because for some reason that expression had managed to make that stern face-plate startlingly cute and Jazz really had to stop now. None of that. Nope. Nothing.

She spent a solid 15 breems there, waiting, until she finally went back out into the crowd and hurried home, unaware of two pairs of shrewd optics on her.

/\/\/\

Another three cycles later, and Jazz was truly beginning to get very upset. She’d been spying. Using a Primus Slagging honest-to-Unicron Fraggin’ telescope. Next thing you know, she’d be hiding in a box, or putting on a fancy accent to try and get into the Autobot complex. Nothing. Not a single thing, and she was perched on the perfect roof to see in too, a contact had come through on a vantage point but that was it.

There wasn’t a single unsecured opening, and Jazz knew exactly why: a fairly short mech who would constantly move around the complex, visibly shouting at times, to plug up any holes. Once, a cycle ago, a soldier had managed to come back into the complex with only half of the security checks, and Jazz could audibly hear the insistent drama that the mech caused, the red-white-black of him a constant smear against the landscape.

Then there was Prowl, who was continually stagnant. Jazz had only begun to notice the other mechs around her because she was so boring. Just sitting in one spot, always on a datapad, only leaving once a day for barely 5 breems to get a cube of energon. But Jazz had to watch, every time, as the femme would taste half the cube, grimace, finish it, and get back. Her only entertainment was betting on how long it took for her to get the cube. Jazz sighed.

She was stomach-down on the roof, a small part of the telescope/binocular contraption peaking over the lip of the roof, allowing her to see without being seen, but that didn’t mean it was any more comfortable. Instead, it felt like Jazz was more sore than doing a single workout, picking small parts of shavings out of her sentio-metallico every time she got up. Humming something to distract her from a fleck that was digging particularly deep into her arm, she focused in again on Prowl, and, Oh?

Jazz couldn’t see who except for some red flamed decals on a blue leg and arm, but she could still see the frown on Prowl’s face-plate, apparently more than a little annoyed at whatever the arm was gesticulating to, which appeared to be outside of the office. Yeah, Prowl would have a problem with that, that made complete sense. After a few moments, Prowl shot up and trudged out the door at the gesture of the arm, and the office was empty.

Jazz re-adjusted herself, wincing. So, Prowl was gone, probably on some assignment, and Jazz was beginning to get very tired. She checked the time. Nearly 4 hours until MacCadam’s Manifold Cafe would be turning into the Manifold Bar, and it was barely 3 blocks away. Just the time for a good cube of something distilled and a nice little bismuth crispy, Jazz’s derma quivering at the thought. Yeah, we can take a break, she decided, and quickly packed up and left.

Pushing into the soft humming bustle of the Cafe was a wonderful feeling, like breathing fresh air after a while in the thin and stale gasses that always permeated the tops of buildings like a smog. Maybe a little bit of spicy Reduvium in there, a hint of that glintstone that always made everything a little special. Walls stained a mottled, streaked brown that looked almost like the organic Wood.

Jazz could live here, and she’d nearly tried once. It’s a good idea to have a second Job as a front for all the shanix you get on the side when you’re in her line of work, but it hadn’t worked out at the time.

Walking up to the counter, Jazz was unsurprised but still delighted to see her favorite mech manning the counter, a shorter red-grey-white Praxian who was always cheerful and quite the chatterbox, Bluestreak. He lit up as she approached, a grin already spreading on his faceplate.

“Jazz! How’ve you been?? It’s been nearly a deca-cycle since I last saw ya!” Bluestreak exclaimed, and Jazz matched his grin, leaning forward on her forearms.

“It’s been hectic Blues, lots of work keeping me up at night and watching the streets.” Jazz replied, and the mech scrunched his nasal ridge.

“That doesn’t mean you can’t drop by at least once in a while! Old Mac doesn’t mind if you don’t get anything either, and you know he’d love to say hi too.” Bluestreak complained, and Jazz just shrugged.

“Maybe when he brings back the Titanite espress.” Jazz feigned indifference, but Bluestreak just snorted.

“Yeah, join the line, it’s not exactly an unpopular sentiment. But he wants it to be a seasonal thing, you’ll have to wait a few months just like everyone else.” Bluestreak said with the patience of a thousand suns, then brightened again. “By the way, what do you want?”

“I’ll take a usual Glintstone Cube, and, a bismuth cripsy.” Jazz pushed off the counter and Bluestreak nodded as she snagged a shanix chip from her subspace, laying on the counter as the mech effortlessly snagged it as he moved behind the counter.

“Alright, one coming up.” Jazz tapped her digits on the counter, Bluestreak happily moving around, settling at the counter with a cube and crispy pushed across in the practiced motion of a professional.

“Thanks Blues.” Jazz grinned, taking the two , but Bluestreak was looking behind her with a giant smile. Jazz turned, right as he piped up in the most surprised happy voice she’d ever heard.

“Prowl?” Ah, slag. Sure enough, right there. Behind her was Prowl. Just, standing there, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else, and Jazz saw even greater weight fall on her shoulders as her optics flickered and saw Jazz’s visor and very surprised face-plate. So this is where she was told to go. Outside?

“...Hello Bluestreak.” Prowl sounded like she looked. “The usual please?”

“Aw, c’mon cuz.” Bluestreak pouted and Jazz had to reckon with keeping her face-plate only surprised and not fully shocked. That was a bomb to drop on her. Bluestreak and Prowl were cousins?!?!?!? “Can’t you send someone other than the errand mechs??”

“I’m very busy, I don’t have time to come here just to say hello.” Prowl said shortly, optics flickering between her cousin and Jazz, who was staring open-mouthed still, and audibly shut her mouth when she saw Prowl staring.

“You still should.” Bluestreak huffed, then narrowed his optics, looking at the one of them very obviously not looking at the other. “Jazz, do you know Prowl?”

“No! Barely-” They both protested quickly, and Bluestreak raised an optical ridge. Jazz corrected herself quickly as Prowl “I met her 3 cycles ago at a group event. I didn’t know her des then. ”

“Hm. Well, you two should sit together! We only have one table left anyway.” Bluestreak smiled brightly, and Jazz looked past Prowl and yeah, every table was full except for one two-seater, the nearest to the counter. The rest were occupied by studying mechs and those sitting quietly enjoying some book or another. Jazz gulped.

“...Sure.” She managed to let just enough air to speak, and Prowl’s shoulders straightened just enough to nod assertively as Bluestreak beamed.

“Great! Prowl, the usual will be up in a few, just have to distill it down.” Bluestreak waved away a shanix chip Prowl tried to place, and Jazz grabbed her food, quickly moving towards the table, setting it down, and having the quickest Oh Slag moment ever. Prowl’s here, we’re going to talk, this is a great thing but also extremely stupid, QUIET SHE’S HERE-

Prowl sat down gracefully, doorwings slotting perfectly behind the chair to frame her head with the sunlight weakly streaming through the tinted windows, making Jazz think for a moment that a severe, beautiful angel had descended onto the seat. Then Prowl met her optics through the visor, and Jazz was reminded of the piercing optics. Unfortunately, her traitorous processor was beginning to like it, and she practically had a mental heart attack when Prowl bit her lip in annoyance, sighing.

“So,” Jazz began, trying very hard to think of business. Did she want to think of other things, like Prowl’s doorwings, the slightly scuffed but still regulation perfect paint on them and- nope. Shut it, quiet now. “Bluestreak’s your cousin?”

“Yes.” Prowl responded, looking anywhere other than Jazz’s visor. “He’s been around and… helping with some things since the Fall of Praxus, but still I barely see him because I’m busy.”

“Why are you here now then?” Jazz asked, remembering the mech with the flamed red and blue decals.

Prowl sighed deeply, then lightly shook her cube and downed half of it, Jazz watching with fascination as she tipped it to a perfect 45 degree angle then set it down, grimacing slightly before responding. “My superior is intent on a ‘healthy work culture’ which tends to interrupt my productivity. He forced me out as a last resort.”

“Pfft.” Jazz couldn’t help a snort of amusement escaping her. There was a note of pride in Prowl’s tone that fit her perfectly. Jazz leaned forward a little bit, taking a sip from her own cube. “It might be presumptive to say, but that sounds exactly like you.”

“It is presumptive.” Prowl said shortly, then drained a quarter of her cube. “...but accurate.”

“At least your boss is nice.” Jazz reasoned, taking a bite of her crispy. “Mine isn’t, not really.”

“He has his moments.” Prowl said dryly, hesitating slightly before asking a question of her own. “Where do you work?”

“Contract bodyguard work, current client is such an afthole, hires me for hand over fist amounts of shanix and never goes out. Practically screams at me about death threats all the time though, I’m half sure his conjunx is sending them to him in secret.” Jazz felt no guilt about telling that particular story, the mech she had been working for had been an absolute afthole, and his refusal to allow her in his house was exactly what allowed his conjunx to kill him. “You?”

This was a test of Prowl, to see what she would say. Would she disclose her military personnel status? Would she avoid it, or diminish it? Jazz waited with bated breath as Prowl drank an eight of the cube. She keeps halving it- “I work in the intelligence field.”

“Intelligence field??” Jazz raised an optical ridge in amusement. So, avoidance then. “Is that a good pickup line? ‘Hey, I work in the intelligence field, that’s how you know I’m good.’”

The corners of Prowl’s mouth quirked up, and Jazz celebrated internally. A smile!!! “It’s never really had to be implemented I suppose.”

“Don’t get out much?” Jazz would have made a jab at Prowl being promiscuous as a joke, but for the moment Jazz was genuinely curious, watching while sipping her cube.

“No. Like I said, it interrupts my work.” Prowl paused and drank the rest of her cube, setting it down on the corner, matching the right angle to the perfect cube base. “I’ve been forced to go out three times a deca-cycle now. My superior has commanded it.”

“Well, if you tell me what days, I can try to be here, that way you won’t be just alone with Bluestreak.” Jazz offered, hoping against hope that Prowl wouldn’t want to just sit in a corner reading a datapad. Who was she kidding, she absolutely would want that, slagging stupid of her to even ask.

“...Very well.” Jazz internally blanked as Prowl furrowed her optical ridges, tapping her digits in a pattern on the table. Yes? “I take it you’re asking in interest of pursuit given the physical attraction you admitted to?”

“Whuhaagh-” Jazz stammered, a little bit of her glintstone cube stuck in her intake. Why was she so blunt about that? She was so embarrassed then. Recovering quickly, she ex-vented quickly. “Sorry, you’re right, you wouldn’t want that-”

“I never said that.” Prowl stood up, and stared down at Jazz, and Jazz didn’t think she’d ever felt so incredibly small, intimidated, and turned on in her entire functioning. She felt blue suffuse her face-plate as her fans kicked on slightly harder than usual, and judging from the practically invisibly small quirk on Prowl’s lips, she heard it. “We’ll meet in 3 cycles if you can, then?”

“...Absolutely.” Jazz’s intake was dry and she felt a little dizzy, one of which she internally attributed to the Crispy, and the other she absolutely couldn’t. The tables flipped quickly, slag. “Three cycles?”

“15:00, 4^th of Solus.” Prowl stood for a moment more, a flicker of something crossing over her face-plate, then walked out of the door, waving a hand as Bluestreak shouted out a goodbye. Jazz stared at the table for a moment, unsure of what exactly had just happened. She had just been on a first date? Or she had planned 3? More than anything, what was she going to do about Prowl? Jazz had forgotten completely about the contract until that point and even then she barely cared. She need to know more about this femme before it killed her with curiosity, and she most of all wanted that domineering everything in her berth, preferably within a deca-cycle. Slag.

“Did Prowl have fun?” Bluestreak asked from behind her, and Jazz jumped in her chair and swore. She looked around, hoping no-one had heard it but the entire cafe had emptied out already, and she was the only one left. The barista held up his hands in defense, surprised by the outburst. “Primus, just asking. She never talks with anyone that long, you held her down for a full 10 breems.”

“Yeah, I think so.” Jazz nodded quickly to Bluestreak. She practically held ME down with her optics, but sure, she had fun. “I gotta go, but thank you so much, I’ll be back again.”

“Thanks Jazz, please do!” Bluestreak smiled, already moving behind towards the counter again as the door chimed, and Jazz slid right past into the open air. Breathing in deep, letting the air cool her fans, she vented back and forth. Stressful day, and it was good to let that go.

Internally though, she couldn’t deny she was exceptionally excited. Maybe too excited, Prowl was becoming dangerously more than a contract. She was becoming an interest. But Jazz wasn’t one to think too much before diving in though, and this would be no exception.

/\/\/\

Jazz had been watching Prowl the last three cycles, just like last time. She’d watched the same schedule, the same movements, the same everything every single cycle, again. Once, Prowl had gotten up for longer than 15 breems, and Jazz celebrated by rolling over onto her back and taking a nap. A menagerie of accouterments like a pillow pad, a few cubes of energon, a note-taking datapad that currently stood half-blank, and 3 throwing knives had found their way with her, and she was not going to go without them. But there was only so much sitting and waiting could do, especially when she kept counting down the cycles.

Then there it was, 14:55 three cycles later and she was arriving outside the Cafe’s softly bright walls, craning her neck to see if Prowl was already inside. There was a red- nope, not a chevron, that might be, but, nope. After a breem, she gave up and walked in, Bluestreak once again at the counter, talking to a customer with his trademark very quick, energetic movements. It took a wave, but Bluestreak saw and beckoned her over enthusiastically as the other customer stepped away.

“Jazz! Here for the table? What’s the order? ” Bluestreak said brightly, already reaching for a Bismuth Crispy.

“Hey! Same order as last time, what table?” Jazz queried as she snagged the proffered Crispy, and Bluestreak gestured to the self-same table as last time, which was again the last one available. The only difference was this time there was a small sign that said Reserved.

Jazz assumed Prowl had talked to Bluestreak via comm, or maybe that had been where she went last cycle when Jazz took her nap. It was always easier to assume when she was thrumming, vibrating with anxiety as she waited for Bluestreak to pass her the usual cube in exchange for a medium shanix chip.

Another mech came in, the dinging of the door a signal more than an alert, and Jazz quickly left the counter, Bluestreak already focusing in on the unholy combination of green, white, red and black that had come through the door as he waved a quick and temporary goodbye.

Jazz settled down on onto the table with the same order as last time, the same side as last time, and checking her chronometer it was 14:57. 3 breems left. She tapped the table, humming a quick, frenetic melody that she had had stuck in her processor for a while. Listening to Blaster’s tapes while on Prowl Watch duty was not conducive to keeping things out of her head, especially when Prowl was the thing circling around in it most of the time.

Slag, Prowl would always stretch twice a cycle, like clockwork, and after Jazz had noticed the pattern she’d recorded one to her processor, just to play back, to watch as she pulled and tensed her arms behind her helm and brought her doorwings back until they shuddered just a little bit at the exertion. Jazz had watched that particular vid maybe 20 times since she recorded it yesterday, with only the mildest amount of shame.

Her tapping grew more insistent, getting to the point where a mech on the table near hers started to stare at her out of the corner of her eye. It didn’t matter, she just needed to wait patiently. Surely, she could wait patiently.

Right as her meter flipped over into 15:00, she heard a small ding! as the door opened and she didn’t even have to turn around to look to know it was Prowl. Instead, she waited anxiously as she heard the clipped words of Prowl’s exact last order delivered to Bluestreak, who cheerfully chatted for a breem with Prowl, inanities Jazz filtered out as she twirled her cube in-between her digits.

Right at the perfect moment, right as Jazz was beginning to to get far too anxious for her own good, Prowl walked around and gracefully set down across from her. The same position of those doorwings that Jazz had been thinking about far too much, framing Prowls face-plate just as last time, the same cube as last time.

“Afternoon.” Jazz said, taking a sip of her own Energon, watching Prowl, who simply nodded back. Her frame was tense, kept still, and Jazz realized that just like last time they met, Prowl was at least a little nervous. Jazz felt a little bit better about her own anxiety, and swirled her cube to pass the short moment.

“I have the rest of this cycle and the next free.” Prowl said abruptly, and Jazz raised an optical ridge in curiosity. Prowl in-vented. “Would you like to go to the gardens after this?”

“Gardens?” Jazz asked, quickly drinking her cube. She didn’t know which gardens, she wasn’t really a plants mech anyway but still; whatever Prowl had planned would probably be either incredible or the physical manifestation of a mental beating. Whatever it was, Jazz was at least

“The Sound Gardens.” Prowl continued, pausing to sip at her Energon. “It’s a setting of large crystal mineral stalagmites that have been converted into grown- You’ll see.”

“Sure then, I’d love to go.” Jazz smiled, stowing her Bismuth into her subspace while draining the cube, setting the empty remainder into a receptacle right behind her. There were advantages to sitting next to the serving counter apparently. Jazz re-focused. “How far away is it?”

“2 kliks. We can walk there easily.” Prowl stood up and Jazz quickly followed, tucking in her chair and internally celebrated. We’re going somewhere! Then, an even more terrifying thought that still made Jazz grin widely; She thought about where to go.

“Jazz?” Prowl queried, and Jazz realized she was, in fact, standing still and smiling stupidly at the air above Prowl’s helm. She shook her head and quickly followed the tactician, waving goodbye to a busy Bluestreak as the streets opened up in front of them. Jazz followed next to Prowl closely as she turned the corner onto the longer main avenue, mechs folding and trickling around them but never interrupting.

“What’s the story then?” Jazz asked, turning to look at Prowl as they walked along, crossing the street after her as Prowl strode with the assurance of someone who knew the way expertly.

“What story.” Prowl responded, phrased like a statement instead of a question. Jazz shrugged.

“Your boss howabout.” Jazz said thoughtfully, tossing information around in her processor. Maybe she could find out why Prowl was given so much free time. Maybe they could have a date every deca-cycle! “Why’s he got you out and about on day vacation?”

“My superior is the only person besides his conjunx with the institutional power to force me to do anything.” Prowl sounded exceptionally irritated at this, and Jazz caught a small frown and twitch of her doorwings before she continued; “I have been finishing all of my work before schedule and at a faster rate than he can assign it, and thus he is attempting to get me to ‘rest and relax’.”

“Can’t be that bad, you’re getting to go to the gardens instead of sit at a desk all day.” Jazz hummed, and nearly jumped as Prowl’s doorwings clacked together as Prowl tensed them and paused in the middle of her stride, pure anger flashing on her faceplate. “Prowl?”

The femme sighed deeply, then continued walking, her stance relaxing slowly. “Apologies. I resent being taken off of assignments, I am the best corporate tactician we have.”

“Corporate tactician? Never heard of that one.” Jazz said lightly, and Prowl snorted like it was a good joke. “You’re good at your work then?”

“You wouldn’t have, it’s a particularly specific work sector.” Prowl said matter-of-factly. “And I’m not good. I am categorically the best.”

“Someone has a high opinion of themselves then.” Jazz poked, half laughing at the comedy of it, and Prowl inclined her helm in affirmation. For a moment, she marvelled that Prowl could manage to be this cocky, assured and almost domineering in her own abilities, but couldn’t perceive anything beyond that. Jazz figured flirting with her by any normal standard would be painful.

“If I have the highest success rate, then I am categorically the best. No opinion about it.” Prowl responded.

“Oh really?” Jazz crossed her arms over her chassis, biting her bottom lip for a second, thinking of the appropriately snide comment to make Prowl rise to the bait. “What’s something you’re excellent at then??”

Prowl frowned in concentration, turning a corner. “I have accurately predicted exactly which employees at a rival company have accepted which contract projects with a 98% accuracy rate.”

“What’s th’ 2% then?” Jazz zeroed in on the number, then Prowl’s doorwings flared out, nearly hitting her in the head. Jazz burst into laughter, nearly tripping as Prowl turned another corner. “Primus! That bad?”

“It was One old mech who got caught cheating on his conjunx, I should have anticipated it but the whole thing got him sent to an HR conference instead of a certain meeting. Stupid of me.” It sounded completely serious, but even as Jazz giggled at the pure stupidity of it, she saw a small, infinitesimally tiny chuckle escape Prowl.

It took a few breems, but eventually Jazz’s conniptions faded, right as Prowl stopped in front a giant gate, walls around a structure that Jazz knew the function of before Prowl said it: “We’re here, the Greenhouse.”

/\/\/\

Jazz didn’t expect the inside of the gardens to be so Loud. Every step further and it was harder to hear anything other than the Hum, until she had to stop right under the true entrance arch. It wasn’t a tinny, high pitch alike audial fuzzing or veteran’s tinnitus. Instead, it sounded like a bass note, a rumbling tumbling aperture into a new dimension. Prowl moved slowly, and Jazz knew why the moment she tried to take a step.

The air itself was like a sludge, a current within it that seemed to pull and twist and shiver every part of her, twisting around her chassis, hugging to her back, whispering in her audial horns.

That wasn’t even the best part though. No, this is perfect. This is pure beauty, Jazz thought, and spun around. Wall to wall, just in the entrance arch, were thousands of small crystal blooms stacked dozens tall. Green, Blue, and deep oxidized reds ornamented every single group, humming noise seeming to feed into them like all the movements already within the air were going into batteries. Solid metal behind, niches where the bases of the flowers led into greater holes behind, flat crystal panes on the inside of the actual greenhouse, the plastic-glass wrap unneeded for the pure color that illuminated every inch of the place. Jazz could sense something olfactory, a hint of silica and spicier nitrogen. It was a spectacle, and Jazz stepped forward slowly, looking at every single point of light she could, intake open with awe. Primus wasn’t as breath-taking.

One more step, and suddenly the pull dissipated, and Jazz could only hunch over and ex-vent, Prowl right beside her but considerably more well composed, her doorwings leveling herself out.

“You couldn’t have warned me?” Jazz gasped, slowly straightening up and glaring at Prowl.

“It’s better if you aren’t expecting it.” she replied, doorwings waving slowly as Jazz huffed, a hand on her knee and on her chest to lever herself up. Looking around slowly, there were two more hallways she could see, covered around the edges and inside with fractured glass glued with a silvery-gold alloy. Jazz couldn’t believe it for a moment.

“Is this… just the entrance??” Jazz spun just like before, slowly watching the details on the walls morph as physical sound moved through the air like a drawing around them, a wriggling film like water.

“Yes. It’s magnificent isn’t it? I’ve only ever been this far.” Prowl sounded just as awed as Jazz, and a quick glance confirmed that there was a full small smile, optics fixated on the arch and hallways. A moment later, Jazz leaned over and gently grabbed her hand, the Praxian looking at her for a moment with just the most everything in her faceplate Jazz had ever seen.

“C’mon.” Jazz said simply, just tugging her along with a firm grip, and they began to walk throughout the hallway, every single facet of crystal unusually shaped a sculpture in and of itself, opening up into another room.

Walls painted the same, with a center sculpture of a massive pair of mechs intertwined, three times taller than Jazz and Prowl combined. Every detail was there, every little plate of metal that wasn’t quite right in so many other sculptures was perfect there, their optics somehow visibly filled with love and adoration for each other as a light shone within the crystals themselves.

More than anything however, it was freezing cold. It took a moment, but Jazz realized why: it was made of water crystals, a sculpture of ice plates somehow clear and perfectly layered, and it was physically making the energon in their systems work harder. Searching, hoping there was a warning, right around the base of the statue Jazz spied a clear sign:

Close Off Your Vents! This Room Is Aurally Refrigerated!

Jazz kept looking at the main attraction, but closed off most of her extra heat vents. No use in wasting energy, and plus she liked her vents closed. Kept her a lot more fit to run, not that she needed to often though. The details were all wonderful though, and Jazz saw crystals the color of red and blue within the centers of the two mechs, one clearly taller and bending over, with a sapphire optical band to almost touch against the half-closed ruby optics- What was that sound?

“Jazz-z?” Prowl’s dentae were the source of the noise, and Jazz glanced with some concern at the tactician.

“Prowl?” Jazz looked closer, and Prowl was slowing down, doorwings attempting to flatten against her back but completely missing the cues. Ah, frag, Jazz realized just as Prowl gritted out the situation:

“My doorwings are too cold to fold, I-” Prowl seemed to want more than anything to just disappear from chagrin in that moment, and Jazz leaned over with alarm, grabbing her arms tightly. “Can you fold them? It will be uncomfortable but I can unfold them later-”

“Why don’t I just,” Jazz began, an idea spawning at the perfect moment in her processor. It wouldn’t do to have Prowl uncomfortable, instead though, Jazz could use herself. Just a quick little…. “Here, wait a moment.”

Prowl stood stock still for a moment as Jazz stepped around, until she was standing right behind Prowl, the vents where Prowl’s doorwings could fold in were reflected by Jazz’s chassis, and Jazz opened the vents on her side, letting the heat flow back out and into Prowl. It was hard to not stare at Prowl’s back either, the folding lines, the doorwings that folded so wonderfully into the blades of supple shoulders, not quite broad and not quite thin, but she managed to try. A little.

Humming a melody, she leaned closer to Prowl’s left shoulder, not quite touching but not quite… not. Jazz huffed a vent, feeling the thoughts about the femme’s back beginning to rise. In response though, Prowl heaved a slow vent, steam rising in the air, and Jazz frowned.

“Prowl you’re not warm enough still, may I-?” Jazz asked delicately, wrapping her arms together in the space around Prowl’s midsection, hovering there, a lurking question. Jazz felt a spike of anxiety that built with every second. Had she overstepped? Was it too much? She wanted to choke and die and had she done it and ruined something or it was over-

Finally, slowly, despite the tension and what was probably only 5 kliks, with shivering chattering dentae, Prowl nodded. Jazz could have just died from relief, but instead her spark just shivered a little as she delicately looped her arms around Prowl’s midsection, careful to delicately press her chassis against the other femme’s doorwings, perching her helm on her shoulder, humming again, more to calm her own self than Prowl.

Slowly, with extreme caution, Jazz looked up to where Prowl was stubbornly staring, completely ignoring every other sensation in her frame. She was definitely not hugging Prowl closely. She was definitely not folded perfectly onto her like a Nite-Cat draped over a couch. She was being normal on a second date, escalating a little bit with consent and not thinking about Prowl’s aft extremely snug right against her lower abdomen. It was some very soft, smooth and pliable, and Jazz almost wanted to hug closer, just to see if- Nope. Shut. That wasn’t asked of by Prowl, she shouldn’t be thinking of it at all. Nix. Nada.

“Jazz.” Prowl finally spoke up, startlingly even in tone.

“Prowl?” Jazz’s spark tightened in her chassis. Frag.

“You could hold a little tighter.” Prowl sounded so matter-of-fact that Jazz could have laughed if she wasn’t smiling wider than she ever had before, and gently pulled Prowl a little closer, a little tighter. Prowl relaxed slightly, and Jazz felt the tension in her spark bleed out to be melted instead.

It took a full 10 breems until Prowl seemed satisfied, and firmly though not suddenly moved her doorwings to push Jazz away. Jazz ex-vented slightly, disappointed slightly, until Prowl turned and offered her arm, clear expectation on her faceplate. Jazz happily obliged, weaving her palm down to be captured by Prowl’s, a firm grasp from the tactician. They wandered out of the exhibit, another hallway heating up, getting right back to ambient temperature, sunlight blocked as always and the strange hum of sound increasing.

They passed sculptures of Primus, artful in their own way but still nothing quite as detailed as the two freezing mechs, everything more focused on presentation and the beauty of form itself. Music changed from sculpture to sculpture, and so did Jazz and Prowl, loose hands to nudges, small exclamations from Jazz at a melody or harmonic choice, mutters of commentary from Prowl as to who might have sculpted the statues, what the method could have been. Jazz found that knowing, or at least speculating the method to the madness never diminished the awe of it, instead adding. How could a mech even think to use some of their own proto-form metal shavings as the carbon basis for a crystal??

Whatever the path they took, it was joors later when Prowl finally led Jazz towards the final section of the exhibition, a hallway framed with the most frothy of sonic barriers on the walls, gradually thinning as they walked down it. It reached a point where they had to push together to avoid hitting the walls, Prowl’s doorwings nearly scraping them anyway as the light began to fade, a mild dusk or twilight beginning to suffuse every part of the path.

Right in the darkest section, Prowl stopped, reading a sign, her hand holding Jazz back too, who looked at her questioningly. Jazz couldn’t make it out, but after a moment Prowl turned around and faced her.

“Face me.” Prowl ordered, and Jazz quickly complied, mystified. “Now. Close your optics.”

“...Prowl?” Jazz questioned hesitantly, and Prowl in-vented slowly before looking into her optics through the visor, deeply focusing to the point Jazz felt again like that first moment she actually met the femme, barely a decacycle before but still so long ago.

“Trust me Jazz.” Jazz swallowed, but nodded and obediently closed them, even behind the visor. Prowl’s voice continued, the short, clipped accent that Jazz was beginning to adore somehow managing to be gentle while barely changing. “The sign only had instructions. I’ll tap you, we’ll open our optics together after we enter, then it said the music will begin.”

Jazz nodded again, despite her apprehension she managed to have a dry internal moment of levity that she was acting like one of those physics ducks that kept nodding. It was for a good cause though, and she reached forward, confident enough to grasp and hold onto Prowl’s shoulders, the other femme reaching up to hold onto Jazz’s in response. Slowly, gently, they moved sideways out of the darkness.

First, Jazz felt nothing new. Prowl’s hands on her arms. Then Prowl tapped her once, twice, and on three she opened her optics to see Prowl, expectation on her faceplate, and Jazz so badly wanted to simply touch her face-plate, feel that expression written there, but that was all she could see. The light had dissipated, a single ray focusing on Prowl and Jazz, centered, and for a breem they stood still, both waiting for the music. Both waiting for the final stroke of genius for the place they had been mutually enchanted by.

Jazz in-vented. Prowl ex-vented. They blinked at each other.

“Thank you for viewing the grand PrimeOrgan, the largest musical instrument ever created! You may dispose of any snacks purchased at the concession stand in the back in the multiple recycling receptacles along the exit hallway, and please enjoy the outro music.”

Jazz stared at Prowl, both of them dumbfounded, until the room lightened, a large simple crystal room with multiple plaques on the walls of donations, and a horrible sounding rendition of The Cybertronian Waltz began to feed out of the cheapest speakers Jazz had ever heard.

It started as a tiny spasm, Jazz’s stomach clenching. Then she felt coolant begin to group around her optics, and she could nearly pass out with how hard she was laughing, Prowl leaning over next to her and putting a hand on her back. Jazz just kept on laughing, unable to believe the pure audacity of the entire greenhouse.

“Ah, frag.” Jazz wiped some coolant away, straightening up but still giggling, and looked at Prowl. There, right there, was a pure soft joy of laughter on Prowl’s face-plate as she obviously tried to suppress it, occasionally straightening her expression only to slightly smile and laugh. For a few moments, they just stood there, a reverie with peals of wondrous ecstasy.

“...Shall we leave?” Prowl finally asked, doorwings back into their usual stance but a hint of the mirth of a moment ago still twisting the corner of her lips up, and Jazz grinned back, her spark feeling light and free.

“Absolutely.” There was a large door to the outside, and Jazz and Prowl leaned on each other as they lurched outside. It was dark already, Cybertron’s sun nearly gone, and the humming twilight just like from the final hallway was almost a reminder.

They walked slowly down the sidewalk, Jazz recognizing downtown Iacon in its’ strange but charming dusk-like limbo. Walking for a few breems, the orange-blue streetlamps began to brighten, and Jazz took the moment to just look at Prowl in their light. She savored it, a hundred little reflections everywhere on her face-plate.

Catching Jazz looking, Prowl turned at looked at her in concert, slowin down, until they just stood in front of closed storefront under one of the sodium bulbs, and Jazz stepped forward just a little bit. She is… Jazz began to think, until she stopped, Prowl’s optics thinning and crinkling as Jazz reached up slowly and lightly brushed her digits along the cables in Prowl’s neck.

“You’re… This was wonderful.” Jazz whispered delicately, afraid to ruin the moment, and Prowl raised an optical ridge, doorwings rising straight up.

“How verbose,” The corner of the femme’s lips curled up and she continued, taking a step forward until Jazz could feel the heat radiating off of her frame, contacting the sensors everywhere in her sentio-metallico. Jazz couldn’t help but ex-vent quickly, biting the inside of her lip to quell the myriad urges that rose at the proximity. “but you’re right. Thank you for coming with me.”

“Pleasure was all mine.” Jazz was going to die. Right there, just from the sheer heat of it all. It was hard enough to even think around Prowl, but this was just unfair, the Praxian’s optics slowly blinking as her helm tilted ever so slightly, bringing her right hand up to firmly grasp Jazz’s upper arm.

“I’m-” Prowl broke the sentence off, averting her optics, and Jazz had a mild moment of insanity when the femme’s hand slipped away from her arm. Prowl was still unsure, Jazz could tell, and she was too drunk on the everything of the night to let any single words remain in that unfairly beautiful mouth, so she leaned forward.

“I’m going to kiss you now.” Jazz said seriously, and right as Prowl looked up with a question on her open lips Jazz caught them with her own. Finally. Finally finally finally, Jazz thought deliriously, and opened her mouth even more at Prowl’s insistence, her… lover insistently pushing her glossa to meet the other. Jazz pulled Prowl closer and she reciprocated, folding her digits into the seams near Jazz’s heat vents and pulling just a little roughly, Jazz gasping against her lips at the sensitivity of the seams.

Re-connecting their lips, Jazz reached one arm around Prowl’s helm to keep them together, and with the other found the base of a doorwing. Prowl moaned just at the touch, optics flickering open at the same time as Jazz’s did, and they pushed their fore-helms together, each burning and Jazz grinned maliciously, digging a digit into the joint where the doorwing hinged.

Jazz could have lived off the sound of that cry. Unfortunately for the pleasure of both her and Prowl, Primus had much different plans.

BANG! A door slamming and both Jazz and Prowl disentangled quickly, looking up as a femme leaned out of the third story balcony of the shoppe they were in front of, so much blue suffusing her faceplate that it nearly outdid the amount on Jazz and Prowl’s, their limbs akimbo like they didn’t know what to do with them.

“IF YOU WANT TO INTERFACE, DO IT IN THE HOTEL!!!” The femme screamed furiously, rage in every single word. She was pointing next door, and wow, perfect that was a hotel right there for Jazz to be embarrassed in instead. Jazz would probably have felt more shame if she wasn’t so overcharged, and the look Prowl gave her before responding told her that they would be booking a room.

“Very sorry.” Prowl replied, pulling Jazz in the direction of the little hotel, and the femme on the balcony scoffed and slammed her door shut. Prowl turned to Jazz quickly, already walking. “We can rent a room unless you have a place closer?”

“No, hotel is perfect.” Jazz rushed out, chasing Prowl’s speed walking as much as she was chasing getting closer to her. The hotel itself was quiet, a creaky old mech peering through spectacles as Prowl marched up and requested a room.

It was background noise to Jazz, she just stood behind Prowl, taking the opportunity to examine Prowl’s wing joints, the way it moved and tensed when she hovered over it with a hand. Jazz wanted, with some evil impulse, to activate the climbing magnets she had in her digits. They were very illegal however, and likely a giveaway, so Jazz just settled for toying around, her own charge still roiling in her coiled wires. She was imagining while she stood there, just what she could do when they got to a berth, what Prowl would like, what they could do to each other… Jazz wanted to tease her chassis wit her digits, circle around her doorwings and cables with her glossa and a thousand other things.

But booking the hotel room was taking too long. She almost, almost wanted to just pull the Praxian into a corner, but that wouldn’t be right for everything she wanted to do.

Jazz sighed and turned her attention to the conversation happening in the background, teasing Prowl with touch only couldn’t escalate until they were alone.

“Your room will be on the third floor, the elevator is that way if you’d like.” The voice of the old mech itself was dusted with age, and he seemed to be quite nice, but Prowl just nodded impatiently and quickly took the proffered key-card.

“Thank you, we’ll take the stairs.” Jazz began walking even before Prowl finished her response, reaching the little door that marked the stairwell and dragging the tactician in. Prowl followed her in quickly, and Jazz turned and shoved her against the door (still being mindful of her doorwings) to close it, following the motion with her own frame to shove their mouths, lips and faces together again.

Prowl again was insistent, and Jazz was all too happy to comply with everything, digits crawling up Jazz’s back to force her helm deeper into the kiss, Jazz pushing every fragment of her closer to Prowl. The burning heat of her mouth entwined with the other as the digestive saliva mixed, and when they broke apart for a short vent, a small string of it strung across the infinitesimally long and vast gap between them before breaking apart. Jazz’s modesty plating was pinging her insistently, and Prowl’s nearly offline optics could only be described as the most sultry look imaginable to combine with the entirety of it all.

“Jazz-” Prowl gasped like she was starving, lurching forward, and Jazz caught the word with another quick kiss, pulling apart for a moment to slyly grin at the tactician.

“Yes, Prowler?” Jazz felt like an irredeemable tease, and she had no problems with it at all. Prowl frowned at her.

“We need- To get- Room J- Jazz!” Jazz, who had been innocently interrupting every other glyph with a peck on the lips, looked up innocently, her charge only getting greater when Prowl caught her next attempt.

“We need to get to the room.” Prowl said seriously, which was also very difficult for Jazz to take as such when the femme’s wings were currently trembling more than a little bit with every pass Jazz made over their owner’s front chassis, the seams around her spark chamber getting more and more sensitive by the klik.

“We can take our time getting there though.” Jazz grinned wickedly, and pulled Prowl closer to her, hoisting her up by the legs. Prowl paused for a moment but wrapped her legs around Jazz’s waist, who took the opportunity to barrage the mech with more chassis affection, this time with her glossa. Prowl gasped again, hunching over Jazz’s helm and arching back in patterns while Jazz steadily moved up the stairs, the work of strengthening her mechano-muscles worth ever breem in the gym just to carry Prowl.

She paused on the first floor stairwell, levered Prowl up even more, and continued the travel, Prowl shuddering with doorwings as Jazz alternated nipping at her neck cables and attempting with every ounce of her will to get into that spark chamber, her own charge crackling and interacting through her glossa while Prowl’s fans attempted to cool with the power of a thousand suns, to no avail as Jazz revved her up even more. The second floor stairwell was reached. One more to go.

But Prowl had other ideas, and as Jazz took a quick rest, disentangled her legs to rest against the wall, her modest panel shuttering aside and Jazz just had to drop to her knees at the pure wreck that the tactician was. Jazz couldn’t have imagined something more wonderful even despite her efforts, the gasping intake, the quaking legs, the doorwings slightly akimbo as Prowl couldn’t keep them perfect and professional anymore.

“Jazz,” Prowl almost moaned her name, and Jazz looked up, witnessing pure art. Prowl tapped her panel, open but not presenting yet fully. “I-”

“What do you need lover?” Jazz purred, her composure at an all time low but still enough to tease, her digits and glossa and mouth and valve and spike already itching for something more of Prowl.

“I need-.” Prowl’s panel finally presented, valve shiny and smooth, blinking red and white biolights on the inside, spike full, a greyish color with small ribs along the base and slightly larger than Jazz might have imagined, but it diminished it none.

Jazz could have overloaded from the suggestion alone. Her glossa darted along her lips, and she looked up into Prowl’s optics, the desire in there so strong Jazz nearly ignored everything else. “What is it you need? Say it Prowler.”

“Please-” It was almost a whimper at this point, but Jazz managed to restrain herself to only tracing the outline of Prowl’s hips, the small weak thrust forward of them, probably involuntarily too sweet to resist.

“Say it, Prowler.” Jazz leaned in and placed a series of kisses down along her stomach, each one wetter and long but stopping, just waiting as Prowl writhed in little motions and attempts to guide the hands that were on her hips towards her valve, or the lips on her stomach towards her spike.

“Do you want to overload? Do you need me to help you? Or…” Jazz lifted one last kiss off of Prowl and looked up. “Or should I leave and let you take care of it.”

“Jazz, please for the life of Primus,” The tactician arched into Jazz’s hand as she draped it over the spike, only allowing just enough contact. Jazz hummed.

“Just say please one more time, I didn’t hear it before.” Prowl’s arm flew up in frustration and flopped again to her side when Jazz relinquished her hand.

“Please-” It was all the signal Jazz needed, and she traveled down from her stomach kissing to bring the first half of Prowl’s spike into her intake, optics closing as she reveled in the very ability to have Prowl inside her, one hands digits migrating to the already wet and stretched valve below, her last settling on her own valve node. She began to slowly massage the inside of Prowl’s valve as she relaxed, waiting to get used to the task of Prowl’s spike. The digit in Prowl’s valve was joined by another as she moved in micro-units on the spike, moans and tiny but restrained bucking of Prowl’s hips accompanying every motion.

Jazz’s ministrations continued for what felt like an eternity of bliss before she paused, fully pulling off of Prowl for a vent, who frowned and began, “W-Why-”

Jazz took in the whole spike in one fell swoop, a quick and prepared motion that she’d had cause to practice before. Prowl gasped, and her hands flew to the back of Jazz’s helm, holding her there for a moment while Jazz moved in what motion she could, her left hand moving on her own node and her right massaging the inside walls of Prowl’s valve until it spasmed, Prowl let out a cry, and the spike inside Jazz began to release trans-fluid in short bursts, which she sent to her energon chamber with no small satisfaction.

Prowl was venting steadily but shallowly, and Jazz’s overcharge was just on the edge of release, and she wanted to badly to just keep massaging her own node, but Prowl straightened up and hauled Jazz up, doorwings nowhere near as steady as they should have been but… optics still full of want.

“Come. I need you.” It was so simple and commanding despite being half-whispered, and Jazz was all to happy to oblige, her insistent and throbbing valve humming with energy. She tripped up the stairs after Prowl, they both had a hand across the other’s shoulders to stabilize themselves. Prowl swiped the key-card, and it declined. Jazz groaned and Prowl cursed. Another attempt, and it unlocked, and this time it was Prowl who twirled them inside to use Jazz to shut the door, an adjoining kitchen counter-top the new home for the key-card as Prowl captured Jazz’s lips with fierce intent.

“We, please- Berth.” Jazz managed to gasp as Prowls digits quickly found and began to knead at her node and nearly push her over the edge. She was not ending this night without the femme’s spike in her for as long as she could manage it.

“Of course.” Prowl murmured against Jazz’s lips, and after a few hip checks against a desk, they fell onto the berth, Jazz being pressed down with the full wait of Prowl’s frame on top of her, digits exploring every single seam around her valve and node, the former begging with every moment to be filled and the latter pinging her to extend her spike, but all Jazz could do was writhe and gasp and moan as Prowl devoured her.

“I’m ready, can you just put it in-” Jazz shivered violently as another wave of charge swept into her, Prowl almost coaxing an overload from her but she had to stop her, she needed the spike in her and on her and everything.

“You need to be stretched more…” Prowl would have looked somewhat studious in her concentration if her engines weren’t steaming and her spike wasn’t twitching in the air, and Jazz simply didn’t care, hands scrabbling around the femmes hips and legs wrapping around, trying to pull her in with whatever method she could manage. Prowl frowned but allowed the force after a moment, and her spike just missed Jazz’s valve but the tactician’s biolights slid across her sensitive and starved node right as Prowl curled her digits right on the wall that housed Jazz’s depressurized spike and Jazz finally cried out as the start of her overload began, Prowl leaning over her and petting her helm uncharacteristically gently as Jazz felt the entirety of her frame all in one instant; the berth the air the still-moving digits along her seams and node and in her valve, the spike that was trying as hard as it could to not go into the valve Jazz was sure it had been forged for since the beginning.

Then the charge began to peter off, and Jazz, still involuntarily moaning from the overload, pulled Prowl down for more kisses. They lay there lazily for half a breem, Jazz gradually regaining more and more energy to try and engage the other femme’s glossa. She disengaged to travel down the convenient and close-by neck cables under metallico, and Prowl’s fans and intake whined in response as she lightly bit down on the derma there. Jazz licked her lips and painted a quick streak up Prowl’s vocal intake to her chin-plate, then lightly nipping at her lower lip.

That motion prompted a short hip jerk from the Praxian, and Jazz in an instant remembered that wonderful spike just waiting there, still leaking small quantities of trans-fluid. I need it now, was her only thought, and she held Prowl close and whispered nothings as she began to grind her hips and lower lips against the spike and Prowl began to let out decisively undignified moans as her spike kept nearly slipping through the folds of Jazz’s valve.

Jazz’s charge was already back and coiling in her spark, ready to join. She didn’t want to deny it the urge any longer, and with a careful pull-back from a final deep grind, Prowl seemed to get the message and quickly situate her spike right at the entrance.

A nudge and Jazz gasped in concert with Prowl, moving slowly down onto the femme as she moved into her, until centi by centi until Jazz could have sworn she was full. Both pausing, steaming, panting, Jazz looked down and that was a good third left. She moaned in pure annoyance and pulled Prowl down lower onto her, nearly fully flat with Prowl’s pedes still planted on the floor.

“Slowly please Prowl.” Jazz whispered into the Praxian’s audial, and after a small nod, the nudging began again. Jazz huffed at the moment, but after a quick klik, barely a feeling of anything more in her valve, Prowl’s hips hit hers, and began to slowly pull out again. Jazz could only focus on the arms around and under her shoulders as they steadied her and the Prowl in her and around her, and her own hands which had taken to mindlessly roaming and coaxing moans from the sensitive chassis moving with the slow thrusts into her. After a quick few kliks of Prowl’s lovely voice, she switched to the base of her doorwing joints and Prowl’s chassis practically presented at the touch; Jazz took the opportunity to suck on the Praxian’s plating, pulling herself close to run her glossa all along the seams of her chassis.

They were already full of charge, and it took barely half a breem for smooth walls that spoke to them both to move and clench around the spike they surrounded, and the shared charge between the two femmes came to a final resolution. Prowl’s spike came in for one last thrust, and they lay there nasal ridge to nasal ridge for a moment, optics to visor, chevron to helm.

“Cuddle?” Jazz whispered, exhausted a nice word for the pure earned fatigue in her frame, feeling like a tense and uneasy muscle that had been thoroughly exercised. Prowl nodded, rolling them over gently onto the full berth instead of the edge, doorwings carefully folded behind her, Jazz laying together with her, feeling better than she had in cycles.

There they lay for far too long, until Prowl eventually spoke up, calm and measured in tone, which Jazz no longer took seriously at all. It was hard when she could wiggle her hips and feel trans-fluid leak out of valve. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Jazz barely had the energy to channel her usual attitude, but Prowl always rose the motivation for it in her. Jazz hesitated, then laid a hand on Prowl’s abdomen and continued softly. “But thank you too.”

“I don’t have work until 1100 next cycle and it’s only 2200 now.” Prowl added, helm conking gently on Jazz’s as she turned to glance at the spy. “Shall we rest and pick up again in the morning?”

“I would love that.” Jazz hummed and curled herself onto Prowl, helm to helm equally, and quickly began to fall into recharge. “Mmore sexy tactician for me.”

In all the

/\/\/\

At 0500, Prowl disentangled herself from Jazz and stepped to the comm machine in the room, quietly and efficiently connecting. One call was made, and only one was needed. The largest twinge of regret struck through her spark, but she carefully wove herself back into the Polyhexian frame, unable to enjoy it even as she wished she could.

/\/\/\

Jazz stretched as she woke up, optics offline but murmuring as she realized that there was a frame missing from beside her. Internal chronometer checked and it was only 0600, plenty of time for a little more fun before they both needed to get back to work. Her frame felt energized again, ready and willing but still tired. Jazz sleepily opened her optics, seeing Prowl sitting in a chair near the foot of the berth.

“Prowl?” Jazz said sleepily, a hand stretching for a moment to try and reach her past the berth, but the other femme just sat stock still, unblinking.

“Jazz.” Something was wrong. Jazz hadn’t gotten this far in her career- frag, she had forgotten her mission, but something was very wrong. Prowl wasn’t- “Or, perhaps, Meister.”

Jazz froze. Still, stock still, half levered up out of the berth, she made the greatest mistake ever, of reaction to information she shouldn’t know about. A beginners mistake, one she wouldn’t have made if she was more careful, if she hadn’t gotten complacent. A shallow mask began to fall over Jazz’s mind, the shadow of Meister that governed her when she was in deep slag.

“Prowl, where did you hear that particular designation?” Meister sneered, and Prowl’s faceplate didn’t change a bit.

“Of all of the Ludus’s agents, I predicted you’d have the highest chance of accepting my contract.” Prowl sounded so clinical, but Jazz saw a twinge. “I am sorry for the circumstances, I only realized last night.”

“What circumstances.” Meister was awake now, and ready. There was time for conversation, and there was time for action. She was fast and she knew it, but Prowl barely seemed fazed when a hidden knife was taken from inside Meister’s leg plating and brought to the neck cables of the tactician. “You’re not exactly in advantageous ones yourself.”

“No, I am.” Prowl’s optics had no fear in them, only determination and sorrow. Meister didn’t turn as a knock sounded on the door, but a nasty grin did spread across her faceplate.

“Someone’s been kissing and telling then, I take it.” She was in her element, and shouted to the door. “Come in, you’ve probably got a warrant anyway.”

Prowl and Meister stared each other down as the door burst open and a stream of military personnel filed in, followed finally by the same red-blue mech that Jazz, that romantic fool, had seen going in and out of Prowl’s office. Probably the Boss.

“You’ve done a very good job, Meister.” Of course, it was Prowl’s Boss, a deep baritone resounding through her frame as she toyed the tip of her knife along Prowl’s neck plating, uprooting a panel, taking no small perverse pleasure in the pain that reflected in the femme’s expression. Despite it all, Prowl still seemed calm.

“Prime, I asked that you only come with Ratchet and Smokescreen.” Prowl’s intake tensed as Meister played with the cables within. “I had this all under control.”

“Clearly not, Prowl.” Meister tsk’d, and the Prime, high firepower for lil’ ole’ me! Took a step forward, but Meister brought the edge of the knife within the gaps of 3 very important cables and saw the face-plate of a grizzled old ambulance grow grim, clearly comming the danger to the Prime, the step taken back quickly.

“Optimus, let me explain.” Prowl began, and Meister’s grin grew, her frame tense.

“Please do Prowl… Let’s see what you have to say for yourself.” A short nod from the Prime, and Prowl’s optics flickered up to Meister’s for a klik before reciting facts and events to the wall, each scentence perfect and clipped but always a little strained whenever Meister tugged on her neck cables with the knife for her own enjoyment. But still, she listened as Prowl began:

“Around 30 deca-cycles I became aware of an organization called the Ludus...”