Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“He likes feeling like he's the one in charge.”

—

Prowl sat down across from the mech. The monster.

Convicted serial killer, kill count ranging anywhere from twelve to eighteen. Only in the last four decacycles, too. He is calm now though, sitting pretty in his chair, stretching about as far out as his restraints allow. So, not very.

Prowl grips his datapad and avoids making direct contact with his face. It is worrisome, being sent in alone. The mech across from him hums. Prowl looks at his datapad now.

The Eastern Praxus Slasher. Pretty straight forward, at least for a media name. Though, slasher isn't the adjective Prowl would have picked. Much more like maim-er, or ripper. A shiver runs through him as the memories of pictures come back to him. Victims, all torn to shreds, decorating alleyways in energon and scrapes. No trace.

Until, there was. One mistake. He left a single tire track. Investigations managed to link the tracks to a few foreigners, Polyhexian and Stanizian, and with some careful narrowing down, they found 4 mechs in the entire city without a clear alibi. All it took was one well placed stakeout, and he was caught. Darted and dragged to the station.

They were not fast enough to save the Victim, though. Prowl has no idea how, but that does not matter.

 The Eastern Praxus Slasher, who both is not from Praxus, and not a slasher. He is from Polyhex, and he is.. something else. His designation and ID number are inscribed clearly on the datapad, and Prowl chews over the name for a moment.

Jazz of Polyhex. 

“See somethin’ you like?” The mech across from him says, and there is a gentle hum behind his voice that soothes Prowl in some foreign subconscious way. This fact startles him, and he manages to keep composure as he looks up.

”Not particularly. Now, to start, my designation is Prowl of Praxus, and I am here to speak with you about a few things.” Normally, he would add on a “Is that okay?” At the end, for formality, but the genuine disgust he feels finally laying optics on this mech churns his tanks.

The face of a serial killer is like any other. Dark plating on his face and even darker plating around the sculpted and sharp curves of his cheeks. Apparently, he had a visor before, but they took it. So, piercing yellow optics are seen, and Prowl watches as they focus and unfocus, quickly scanning over him. His face overall is round, and it makes him look.. docile. Preposterous. Prowl shakes his wings slightly, and watches as Jazz takes note. 

His optics flit to Prowl’s wings, and then back to him. He gives Prowl a warm smile, leaning back slowly in his chair.

”By all means, then.” Jazz gestures outward, and Prowl adjusts his grip on the datapad. 

“Designation, Jazz of Polyhex. Identification serial number, one million seven hundred seventy five thousand eight hundred forty one.” He reads off the datapad, and Jazz snickers. 

“On the nose,” he hums, loosely gesturing towards his own face. “The- the gesture makes more sense with the hand motions. See, it’s—this is funny— a lot of how I talk’s kept in these funny little mannerisms, and, I mean.. y’know.” Jazz grins, and he jerks his arms up against the restraints, making a horrendously loud scrape against the chair. 

Prowl tightens his grip on the datapad and watches. 

“Please refrain from doing that.” 

“Right-o.” Jazz’s optics whir, and Prowl is sure to watch where they look. 

Prowl waits for Jazz to settle back down before allowing himself to shift position.

“So, how long you been a sarge, mech?” He asks.

Prowl lets himself vent a moment. 

“A decacycle.” He looks back at his datapad, even if he is not reading. 

“He likes feeling like he’s the one in charge. Let him ask some questions, it’s whatever. We’ll get what we want sooner rather than later.” His chief had said it with some kind of flair, waving a hand around like they didn’t have one of the quickest serial killers in Praxian— Cybertronian— history locked up in the interrogation room. 

“Hm.” Jazz Hums. He will let Jazz ask him whatever, and he will answer, but that is no guarantee he will be honest. “You’re too smart for this.” He says, and Prowl narrows his optics.

“What do you mean?” 

“You’re too smart to just be a cop,” he says it with a strange drawl in his voice, leaning as far forward as the chains allow. 

He bares his dentae then, and they are .. surprisingly flat. Killers and assassins tend to sharpen their dentae, as some, or most, tend to enjoy ripping throats out. It is an odd and common theme amongst the killers of Praxus, and Prowl could not say why. He is not a serial killer or in the loop with any, so the trends they have are outside of his jurisdiction.

It appears Jazz is not in that loop either.

He stares at Jazz’s dentae likely longer than he was intended to even want to look, and the mech slowly closes his mouth. He leans back.

“You’re an odd one. Shame you’ll die like all the rest of em.” Jazz shrugs, looking to the door. Prowl cannot help but feel a vague threat fringing the edges of the sentiment. Well, yes, he will die one day, but the exact threat seems to imply that will be coming soon. Or, with a large group. 

He can not think of a single thing to say in response. So, he does not respond. 

Jazz seems to take the silence to think. Prowl particularly does not want Jazz to be thinking too much. 

There is something strange about the way Jazz looks at him. It is beyond curiosity, beyond intrigue. He cannot pinpoint it, however. Prowl has never been good at these things. 

Concepts and facts are much easier to grasp. Of course, these things both play into emotion and empathy, but they are not always accurate. His presumptions that a mech with hunched shoulders and drawn brows is angry, but then they ended up sobbing. 

Facts cannot be trusted when it comes to empathy, apparently. 

So, whatever emotion it is that Jazz is attempting to display, it slips right under Prowl’s radar. 

“Jokes!” Jazz finally speaks again, and Prowl does not believe him.

“When did you move to Praxus?” Prowl finally decides to take the lead, and Jazz appears to pout. He sticks his lower lip out and draws his brows upward. Prowl does not preserve the thought to memory. 

“Not too long ago.” He hums. It is not a suitable answer. Jazz must know this. There are no logs to track a time at which Jazz might have moved to Praxus, nor a matching one to indicate he left Polyhex.

Polyhex and Praxus are not neighbors, either. Prowl is sure that he would have had to take the train to come here. Trains have tickets, tickets are kept marked under legal designation, and there is no Jazz of Polyhex going anywhere. Ever. 

Jazz of Polyhex might not even exist. They check IDs on most trains. You need your ID to purchase a ticket. Prowl has checked the train systems about two dozen times each. He is going to look at each individual one next. 

Now, it is possible that Jazz walked. But that would be ridiculous. He has to have been in the city at least four decacyles. Unless he has been here more. 

There is no feasible way he has been here less and-

“So, Prowl!” Jazz starts again, leaning forward in his seat, the chains audibly scraping against his plating. “How long have you lived in Praxus?” 

It is childish. Reversing the question on him does not do a single thing besides get him another lie as a response. Unless he knows it will be a lie. Maybe he is trying to feel Prowl out. He pauses. 

The main issue is that Prowl does not know how smart Jazz is. He does not know if he just consistently got lucky until recently, or maybe if this is all a part of some grandiose plan.

Prowl clenches his hands. It is more likely than not that Jazz can escape his restraints. If he is as good as Prowl is thinking he is, at least. Prowl would rather overestimate Jazz’s capabilities than underestimate. 

However, whatever game he is playing now is completely asinine, because Prowl is prepared. He will not let his guard down. 

“A few Decacycles.” Prowl is not an avid user of the word ‘ few’ . It is far too vague under most circumstances, because there is no set number range for the term. A few energon sticks could be fifteen, but a few officers could be two. Similar terminology such as bunch and lot also fall into this category. 

He often finds himself having to be vague in such a way during interrogations, which he is okay with, but in regular conversation he would much rather be smacked in the face than use such terms. That, and hyperbole. Prowl is not a fan of hyperbole. He feels it overcomplicates things. His tactical-network chirps its praises back at that. 

He had forgotten it was here for a moment. It does not comment on that, but it does interject his thought process and attempt to sort out the entire conversation neatly. It begins to get frustrated when it cannot. 

Prowl pushes it back to background function and feeds it statistics about the crime scenes to compare to Jazz himself. This seems to keep it occupied for the moment.   

Jazz smiles at Prowl. Very widely. It is unsettling. Prowl just stares back at him however, noting how Jazz’s optics do not move with the smile. Likely a habit obtained from his time with the visor. 

“You don’t think I’m dumb, right?” Jazz asks now, tilting his head at Prowl as the smile vanishes. Prowl does not have an immediate response. He knew the smile was faux, even barely comprehending real ones.

”No.” is what he says instead of thinking about it too much. “I do not.” He opts not to flatter the real actual murderer sitting across from him much. 

“Awe, sweet of you!” Jazz smiles again, and his whole face is in it now. Prowl does not preserve this to memory. He sends it off to the tactical network to chew on instead. “I’m glad! Most mechs assume I ain’t got anythin’ worth a shanix up there.” His grin shifts to a grimace, and Prowl gives him a nod. He is sure life would be Pit itself if he went through such things. 

Mechs assume he is glitched before they dare assume he is stupid. Because all of the mechs know Prowl is not stupid. Prowl is intelligent and whatever else he must be. Prowl can adapt, he is sure of this. 

Jazz is smiling at him, but it is in a much more warm way? If that is the right word. It likely is, Prowl does not get his words wrong often. Well, besides guessing emotion and such things incorrectly. Which, suddenly, he wonders if that is this? 

Jazz smiling likely does not mean Jazz is actually happy (92% rounded up for convenience (Thank you, Tactical Network. Here are some different numbers to crunch since you worked out those so quick)) but more likely that he is trying to give the illusion that he is happy. 

“So,” Jazz cuts in again, and Prowl is sure by now that he does not like

Silence, “you gonna lock me up?” It is a stupid question. But Jazz is not stupid. So, it is a ploy. 

“Yes. You have committed several severe crimes, including but not limited to, twelve counts of premeditated murder, breaking and entering, resistance to arrest, and battery.”  Prowl does not glance down at the datapad. He has no need to. 

“Only twelve?” Is Jazz’s response to that. He does not attempt to deny it, and is only attempting to further his charges. “Thought there’d be more than that.” He hums. Prowl furrows his brow. 

“There is-“ (88.2467% chance of—(stop interrupting.)) “-a..” Prowl’s voice falls off. He cannot even remember what he was trying to say. Silently scorning the Tactical Network for this, he looks at his datapad to attempt to make it look like something other than an embarrassing flounder with a system he has had in his processor since the beginning. 

“a what , Prowl?” Jazz hums it, almost a purr, and Prowl cannot help the glare he tosses at Jazz. This does nothing but amuse him. “Hey, hey! Cool your engine! S’not my fault. Finish your sentence. Please.” He attempts and fails to gesture for Prowl to continue. He is lucky Prowl is not stupid.

”There is a potential for more frames that have not been uncovered yet.” They have actually found fourteen frames, but most in smaller pieces, so harder to identify. Well, the fourteenth frame was much more akin to the suggestion that a mech was once alive in it at some point than the remains of a civilian.

That, of course, makes this harder. Jazz’s victims are just that. They are not criminals, they are not rotten cops or offenders. They are factory workers, they are mentors, they are office workers, mechs with brothers, mechs with sisters. They are civilians. Innocents.

If they were in fact bad or rotten it would not justify the murders, but it would give them a far more valid and easier motive. As of now, the motive just appears to be killing for the sake of it.

”Ah! Okay, good.” Jazz smiles. It makes Prowl feel ill now. “I’d help, but I sorta have my hands tied. Hah! Get it? ‘Cause I’m cuffed to this chair!” Jazz jingles his chains as he laughs, and Prowl Allows him that.

”You do not need your hands to inform me of the locations of the-“

”Primus, you talk like a drone! Nothing in there at all!” Jazz scoffs, and Prowl bites his tongue. 

Is that a bad thing? Jazz seemed to think so.

”Apologies.” Is the only suitable response he can give before mentally rebriefing himself on the situation. Prowl has been told sixty-eight times in his recent functioning something similar. Often calling him dry, too robotic. It is not Prowl’s fault that he is like this. He was, first, constructed as such, and second, the tactical network adds onto that. 

It enjoys being literal, as does Prowl. There is no problem. 

“It’s okay! Don’t even worry about it.” Jazz leans back in his chair and settles down. Prowl nods. He will not worry. He will be alert, however, as those are different things. 

“I do not plan on it.” He says, and Jazz tilts his head at him. 

“How old are you?” It sounds earnest, and Prowl does not trust it. 

“Older than you.” Is about vague enough. He is not sure if this is true completely, since the information available about Jazz himself is slim. His first appearance, according to the law, is four million decavorn ago. Which is impossible, because his identification number dates him as being at least a million decavorn older than that. They cannot find his number exactly in any systems, which is unnerving. 

As far as he knows, Jazz of Polyhex could well be a front. Prowl does not dwell on that too much, he just feeds the data into the tactical network to gnaw on. 

Jazz continues to hum some strange song. Prowl continues to be confused. 

“Sure you are. Old copper like you, ought to be around eight.” He gives Prowl that smile again, showing off all his teeth while his optics flit over Prowl to read his reaction. 

Prowl is not going to give one so easily. 

Prowl is not ‘ around eight.’ Which, this implies initially that eight means eight million, that Prowl is that old, and that he has been an enforcer his whole functioning. The first one is the most true, with the others being absurd at the least. 

However, this reveals that Jazz views eight million decavorn as old. Thus Forth, he is less than that. Likely quite a step down. Prowl would estimate around six million, so quite close to his own. 

“I am not eight million decavorn.” He says. This is mostly to attempt to get Jazz to admit that this was the original thought. Jazz, however, laughs. Loudly. It is almost offensive, and Prowl nearly flinches at the force of it. 

Jazz is a sensory overload compressed and packaged into.. Jazz. 

Prowl clenches his jaw. Jazz’s laughter dies off. 

“Sorry, mech. Didn’t mean to be quite so loud. Small room, y’know? Sound bounces right off those walls,” he gestures a loose digit gun at Prowl and makes a click, “bang, bang!” He pretends to shoot it. Prowl is not amused. Far from it.

Because he in fact saw the way that Jazz’s digits moved when he adjusted the cuffs. He is not completely secured in them. (95.45% chance the cuffs are already compromised (Thank you)). 

Prowl flicks his wings carefully, and he watches as Jazz’s expression falters as his optics flit over to them. He is on high alert. 

Of course he is. He would be stupid not to be. It is remarkably clear by now that Jazz is not stupid. It would be impressive if Jazz were not a serial killer. Prowl takes note of that. Specifically Jazz’s attempts to disguise what he is doing. He is very good at hiding the fact that his actions have ulterior motives, Prowl is not going to doubt that, because as much is clear to the unscathed optic. 

These attempts would work best around civilians, however. Jazz’s prey, the mechs he likely sees in cycle-to-cycle life. It keeps Prowl’s tanks unsettled. 

“Yes. Small room.” He taps a digit on the surface of the table. It makes a clicking sound that echoes throughout the room. 

Jazz hums again. 

“The acoustics in here are awful. I mean, come on.” He smacks his palm to the chair, and it makes an unfortunate clunk. It is certainly more the structure of the chair to blame than the acoustics of the room. 

“Yes.” Prowl says. He cannot plot a proper response aside from that. “Was it your intention to get caught, Jazz?” Prowl leans back in his chair a bit, and watches as Jazz notes this. 

“‘Course it was. Now I get to sit pretty in this room with you, copper.” He leans as far forward as he can, tilting his head down and towards Prowl. He grins, and it is toothy and wide. 

“Seriously.” Prowl cannot help the edge of a scowl lining his tone, and Jazz laughs again. Notably quieter this time. Prowl takes note of this. 

“Is it such a crime, sarge?” Jazz is always smiling now. It is unnerving. 

“Sergeant.” Prowl corrects. Jazz nods intently as if he has any desire to correct himself in the future. Prowl doubts this. 

“Yes, yes, ‘course. My apologies Sergeant.” Jazz snickers and does a faux salute. 

Prowl stops. His hand is to his forehead. His hand is out of the cuff. The other one—the other one is still cuffed and (87.523% chance of-(not now) 77% chance that-( not now!) 97.668% possibility that he is-( if you keep this up you’re going to— — - ) 

Chapter Text

Prowl wakes in the medical office. 

Primus , his head hurts. He starts to sit up, when a firm hand shoves him back down.

”I wouldn’t, if I were you.” First Aid is there, holding a datapad in one hand and Prowl in the other. “You had quite the nasty crash it seems. It’s okay, it happens, you just need to—“

”What happened.” It is not asking for information, it is demanding. 

“Well,” First Aid slowly pulls his hand off of Prowl, “You crashed. Well, rather the tacnet crashed and forced you into a reboot.” Prowl avoids the urge to groan. He knows all of this information. That is how a crash works. He is not stupid .

”I am aware of how a crash happens, I want to know why it happened and what happened after.” He states this firmly. First Aid should give him such information upon request. 

“Oh! Okay, yeah!” First Aid perks up at that and taps at the datapad. “Interrogating a suspect, something unexpected happened, and they say you freezed up for about two kliks before dropping. The suspect was properly restrained and then locked up, and you were carried here. Before you ask, you’ve been here five joor.”  First Aid shrugs loosely. Prowl waits as his memory files load back in. The memories from the instant before the crash  were not saved properly into his long term storage yet, and thus he does not yet have access to them. 

So, Prowl waits. First Aid asks him how he is feeling, and he tells him he is fine. 

In the literal sense this is true. Prowl has properly rebooted from his crash, and his systems are loading in as they should be. However, his head hurts a proper storm now, and he restrains a flinch when First Aid pokes his head out the door and essentially screams for a station schedule. 

Someone inevitably swoops by and hands him one, and the polite exchange ends in First Aid tucking back into the room. 

“Okay, I’m giving you the rest of the cycle off. And half of the next cycle, actually. This time next cycle you can start working again, yeah?” First Aid types something into the datapad, then goes over to the counter, Putting the datapad down. “It’s in the system already, so don’t even try to get around it. Take the time for yourself.” He tilts his head, and his visor gets that odd glint it gets when he smiles. 

Prowl does not want to take time to himself. He wants to get back on the case. First Aid appears to know he is thinking this, because he shoots Prowl a look through the visor somehow. 

“ Hey. I’m serious. Next cycle even, take it easy when you get back. I got it approved by your superiors while you were down. I know you don’t like to wait for this scrap.” He snickers, seemingly to himself, and Prowl nods. 

It will, inevitably, be asinine to attempt to withhold him from duties for much time. This is partially why a cycle is as long as he will take off after a crash. As memory flows back, Prowl finds it is the Surrounding circumstances of the crash here that upsets him.

He knew the cuffs were compromised. There was never a moment he was in that room that he was unsure if Jazz could get out. He was aware. The issue, Prowl comes to see, is not that Jazz escaped his restraints. It was the fact that Prowl could not tell when he did it.

Clearly, between when he last adjusted the cuffs, (preparing to slip out of them, 77% (Most Likely)) and when he yanked his hand out. Prowl, despite keeping both an optic and his doorwings subconsciously trained on Jazz’s hands, he did not notice when he escaped. 

He sifts through the movement logs stored by his wings. Shuffling and other movements, nothing enough to indicate the removal of the cuffs.

 Prowl feels his face teeter into a growl. First Aid glances at him from across the room. 

“You can go back to your bunk, if you’d like. I mean, you’re also free to stay here if-“ Prowl sits up and throws his legs over the side of the medical berth, allowing himself a moment to take a vent. 

First Aid watches him closely. Prowl watches him just as close. 

He hops off the berth and stretches. His joints are not too stiff, which is good. He can stand fine, and he yet again curses the unnecessary concern that every mech seems to hold surrounding his crashes. 

It is the fault of the Tactical network. He himself possesses no glitch, no faulty wiring. 

Unless you count the misfiring of the tactical network, which he does not. That is not from him, it was not his fault. The medic wired part of it incorrectly. He cannot be blamed for the mistakes of those who were supposed to help him. 

He does not allow First Aid to stop him as he shoves his way out of the room. 

He is in the medical hall of the station. Floor two. Floor one is where the communal rooms are. Such things as the break room, meeting rooms, the cafeteria, and so on. Floor two is important offices and medical. There is an emergency medical office on the first floor, however it is not nearly as equipped. Floor three is the interrogation offices and debriefing rooms. It is harder for a subject to get out from the third floor. Floor four is storage. 

Floor five and above are residential. Many officers choose to live here for ease of access, and due to the intricate and deep connections formed between coworkers. 

Prowl lives there for the former. 

He goes to the lift, and pauses at it for a moment. His tanks are almost full, they must have had him tied to an energon drip while he was down (97% rounded up). 

He opts to go back to his room. He enters the lift as it arrives, punching in the button for the 7th floor. Apartment 7D. 

The lift rattles. It is very, very old. Prowl does not mind. He knows many old things that still serve a purpose in this world. He silently thanks the lift as he exits, restraining the desire to grip his helm and clench his jaw. 

Pain is one thing, dignity as an officer, even off duty, is another. Prowl wears enforcer colors. He does not have even a civilian paint selection. Prowl is sure if he retired—or for some absolutely preposterous and unreal reason, was fired— he would return to his original colors. 

White and black, with blue accents. Even now, he is most of those colors, just arranged differently. The blue is gone, but he does not mind. 

He enters the door code at his apartment, and it slides open. Prowl enters quickly and quietly, waiting for the door to close behind him before plotting his next move. 

Each enforcer must live with another. The higher ups did it to mitigate the rising negative enforcer mindsets that were growing, apparently. Too many complained in psychology screenings about being lonely and sad, and that along with a few well placed suicides, led to Prowl having to live with a fellow enforcer. 

He does not mind the mech, to say; however, he is not a fan of bunking with him. Hound is a good mech, honorable. 

However, it does not quell Prowl’s discomfort with living amongst his coworkers in a far more literal sense. Hound should be here now, but Prowl can detect no trace of him. 

There is a datapad laying on the counter. There is a box next to the datapad. As neither of these items are usually here in this fashion, Prowl takes intimate note of them, and approaches with caution.

The datapad is on. It has a note on it. Benign enough, so far. He picks it up to read:

Hey! I’m out on late patrol this cycle, so don’t wait up haha.

Heard about your crash. Nasty, huh? Well, I left you some prepped energon, so be sure to check the box. I also left some other stuff in there for you, as a sort of get well soon thing. I know you’re fine and don't want me to worry, so this is me officially saying I’m not worried.

You’re fine and can take care of yourself. I know that. I do just want to help where I can, so please, take the box. 

I’ll see you either late or next cycle. Or, maybe this cycle. I don’t know when you’re getting back here, but either way, take the box. Please.

-Hound.

Prowl puts the datapad down. He picks up the box and looks inside. It is full of sealed cubes and a few unlabelled containers. He picks up one of the containers and pops it open. It is full of energon sticks, assorted colors and flavors. Prowl hesitantly scans one over, just in case, and it comes up clean. 

He does not expect Hound to poison him, or even to attempt to, but he feels it is important to check. Prowl fears the one time he does not check is the time he is poisoned (37.06% chance. That specific line of thought is irrational and- (Noted.)). 

Prowl exvents, slowly. He eats the one he is holding and tries to identify the flavor. The color would not signify much, and he flips the container over in his hand. It rattles, and carved loosely into the side is ‘ Copper’. 

It does not taste like copper much. It is more of an undertone. He debates this for a klik before shunting it back to the tactical network to chew on. (87.443% tha-) Prowl wishes silently that his brief moment of humor would be properly appreciated, but then again he reminds himself he does not enjoy company much anyways.

It would not be worth the likely weak chuckle it would garner. Prowl frowns. He is not boring. He is not drone-like. He is a regular mech, even if he tends to be straightforward. That does not make him lifeless! It just makes him very clear, it makes him concise. 

How candid Prowl is tends to throw others off. That is apparently not the standard. Prowl gnaws on one of the energon sticks still, picking up the box and leaving the datapad on the counter as he makes his way around to his room. 

Prowl’s room is to the left of the entrance, into a very very short hallway, where after that, a right is taken into the room. 

His door is closed when he approaches, as it should be. He relies the box on one hand and uses his, now free, other hand to type in the code. 

Hound’s door does not have this feature. Prowl does not understand this, especially since Hound has company over from time to time. Not having a lock on the door.. It seems foolish. 

Prowl has been told before that he is overly paranoid, but he disagrees with that sentiment. He is under the impression that there is no such thing as too paranoid.

Paranoia as it is seen publicly is bad. Prowl does not view it as such, rather more so to him as a shield. If you are aware constantly, if you are constantly holding the mental capacity to handle an incident or mistake, you will always be prepared.  

The door to his room closes and locks behind him. He listens for them all to shut before he goes to his desk. 

Another thing Prowl is apparently scarily good at is multitasking. 

As he begins to take everything out to the box to properly look at it all, he also picks up a datapad with his other hand. Whilst Moving the box out of the way, he single-handedly pops his own hardwire cables out, plugging them into the datapad and having the tactical network sort and download all of his movement logs from the interrogation onto it. 

He also shunts his crash logs onto it as well, so he can overlay them and show others if need be. 

The box is easy enough to collapse with one hand as he grips the datapad with his other, and once it is out of the way, he begins sorting the contents of the box. 

Four regular, seven with a medical additive, two with copper, and four with magnesium. Five packages of energon sticks, one copper, three plain, one magnesium. One pack of plain rust sticks. It is a lot. It is too much. Prowl moves them into proper stacks and takes to labeling them. He will give Hound some of these back next he sees him. 

(97.6654% hound disapproves based on previous behavior in similar situations:: the note… “ please”… round up.. 98% disapproval probability. (Just run the calculations for the data. I do not need to hear about my social ineptness yet again.)) 

Prowl exvents. His own mind does not need to be laying it on quite so thickly this cycle. It is okay, however. 

He puts the datapad down, disconnecting. It is loading the data in properly, saving it to memory. He will let it do that. He picks up a plain box of energon sticks and pops it open. His tanks are nowhere near empty, so he rattles the box around a bit before subspacing it. 

Then, Prowl waits. The datapad finishes, slowly but surely, and Prowl picks it back up. 

Movement logs from his wings trace nothing large enough to signify Jazz slipping the cuffs off. Prowl grits his dentae. It is pointless. All of this.. this time he has put in, all this work and all this effort. And for what? 

He has been fighting his way up the chain of command to help Praxus. He wants to help Praxus. 

Now all he finds himself with are motion logs that lead nowhere and a serial killer locked in the equivalent of the department basement. He clenches his jaw, then unclenches it. Clench, unclench. Clench, unclench. 

Prowl does not like it when he does not understand something. The tactical network does not like it when it does not understand things. 

So, they both must suffer. 

(.665% chance that-(no, no no no. That’s not-) 3.447% probability of- (not now not now- ) .771% (no.) 33.7% (better) 77.6%? (Getting there.) 89.56%? (Almost.) 93.55% chance of escape. (okay. Okay.) 95.- (no, no that’s enough.))

Prowl drums his digits on the desk. It is most likely that Jazz will in fact escape, and Prowl will be left with more questions than answers. 

It is against most (44.6%) odds, but he feels as if he cannot stop himself. He must speak to him again. He must see Jazz.

Chapter Text

Jazz has been around the block. Jazz has walked to and from the pit, Jazz has killed, Jazz has become more. 

Jazz sits in a Prison cell. Gross. Really, it's a gross as frag cell! Well, Jazz supposes this is jail, not prison. Why he hasn’t been transferred yet, he’s unsure. 

He’s glad he hasn’t been moved yet, however, because it gives him time to investigate. The cell isn't too large, so that's good. The bars are metal, And with enough force he can bust right on through. And, of course, for the longest and somehow also the briefest of moments, Jazz considers escaping. 

He opts against it.

He needs to know what’s wrong with that sergeant. Sergeant Prowl of Praxus, apparently. See, the big thing is that Jazz knows wingspeak. 

Course he does, he’s lived in Praxus forever now, he’d be crazy not to know it. All these other cops, they read easy. Surprising, sure. Happy, angry, sad, upset with a slight twinge of nausea, all of it. 

Prowl doesn’t do it. He didn’t emote like the others have. He sat, droning on whenever Jazz wouldn’t, and only did the occasional flick to show off how he was reading the room. Even then, that was pretty subtle. 

Then, of course, to read the room back, Jazz slipped a hand out of the cuff. Not too hard, once he adjusted his hand for it. 

Prowl had not reacted how he thought he would. Jazz was so, so sure he’d just…tell him to put it back on, or call backup, or tase him or something . 

Instead, he froze, stiffened for what felt like forever, and then just.. dropped. Jazz had been so taken aback, he didn’t really bother trying to escape.

And now, he finds himself formulating a deadline. 

He has until there’s real talk of transferring him to figure out what’s going on. That’s not too bad. He’s done more in less. 

Jazz, unfortunately, isn't in a position to go see the cop himself. He has to wait.

Jazz hates waiting. He always has, it's never been one of his strong suits. He kills mechs, for Primus’ sake, he isn’t going to be all that nice and all that patient! He’s angry, he's mean, he's..

Jazz frowns. They’re going to see he's not at his usual spot tomorrow. See, he plays the electrobass every now and again In this same spot. So, when he isn't there, Mechs are going to get concerned.

What if the cppd announces they caught the slasher? Would they put two and two together? Jazz rubs his face.

The visor is missing. Right. Frag. Frag! 

He’s really stuck, isn't he? Unless he gets over his curiosity and leaves but.. he’d likely end up stalking the mech to quell that curiosity anyways. Once Jazz is going, it gets hard to stop. 

It doesn't help that he doesn't want to stop. He wants to learn everything he can about Prowl. He wants to know why he isn't like other Praxians, he wants to know why he's so much more sensitive to sound, why he passed out on Jazz before, just so so so many things!

Is he really aloof? Why? Why why why? Did he have a part in Jazz’s capture? Why is this the way things are happening? Why this, why that!

Prowl, to Jazz, is the root. If he can dig him up and dissect him (in a metaphorical sense), then he can learn about him. Everything. He wants to know as much as he can.

Say it's competition! Jazz, ever the overachiever, wants nothing more than to be the best at what he does. He’s got the largest frame count in the shortest time of any Praxian killer (even if he isn't Praxian), he’s the best electrobass player in this hemisphere (self proclaimed title, really), and now he wants to know the most about Prowl.

Jazz hopes it’s hard. Jazz hopes he has to work for this. He hopes Prowl is secretive and closed off and gives Jazz the smallest clues.

Jazz wants a challenge. You can only frag with Civilians for so Long before the thrill wears off. 

Does he want to kill Prowl? The thought crosses his mind. He really isn’t sure yet. He said it, yeah, but Jazz says a lot of stuff. He loves to talk. A lot. All the time. Whenever he can. However, now, Jazz finds himself thinking more than he often would surrounding something like this. 

Jazz has killed a lot of mechs. How many specifically, he doesn’t intend on giving away quite yet. 

Jazz hums to himself. He hums and nothing happens. Except everything happens to him . He hums and the room shakes and melts apart and the ground splits open, and for a brief moment he’s staring Primus in the optics and the mech shakes his head.  

Jazz doesn’t really care about him. Or what he thinks.

So, he snuffs out his face with an offhanded Wave of a pede. Jazz looks around the room again. It’s normal once more. 

Jazz is aware of his overactive imagination, to say. He’d consider himself proud of it, but he really doesn’t care. He hums again, and he imagines himself with his bass again. It’s at his apartment, because of course it is. He exvents. Loudly. 

Even if, the police would probably rip it from him if he had it anyhow, and he doesn't trust them with it, not one measly scrap.

He grits his dentae. He wants to go home. He also wants to talk to Prowl. Ultimately, he can have both, but it would take a substantial amount of effort that he doesn’t want to put into this. And the time. He’s not a very patient mech. So, he continues to be impatient. 

He’s impatient on the cot, he’s impatient on the floor, he’s impatient leaning on the bars and standing in the corner and throwing faux punches at the wall.

Then, as he does this, over and over and over, he hears something. 

He turns around and stops. Prowl is standing outside his cell.

“Well, hey there Prowl.” He says, snickering as he approaches the bars. Prowl is far enough where if he got his hand somehow and arm jammed through the bars, he still couldn’t touch him. It’s that sort of planning that stands out to Jazz. “What brings you here?” 

“Work.” Is all he says. There is no doubt in Jazz’s mind at all that Prowl has lived in Praxus his entire life. Prowl’s got that stereotypical, thick and laced Praxian accent. When you live in Praxus so long though, you forget those things. 

Prowl doesn’t seem to think about it. Jazz ain’t psychic, but Prowl seems to put a lot of care and thought into his words, and they still slip right on out with an accent. Jazz pauses. 

“Work! ‘Course, why else’d you be here?” He smiles, broadly, and Prowl just… stares. He does that a lot. Long gaps between speaking. 

For a moment, Jazz worries he’s going to crash again. 

“I would not.” He says, finally. Jazz nods, quickly. Of course! “You are silent.” Prowl gestures at him now. If Jazz could get his arm all the way through the bar, up to his chassis, he’d be able to grab his wrist now. Prowl would be able to rip his arm back fast enough though, so Jazz just thinks about it. 

Jazz isn’t really silent though. In what way does Prowl mean? He didn’t specify anything. 

“I mean, I wouldn’t say silent.” He gestures out with his hands, and Prowl continues to stare. He watches as Prowl’s optics flit across him. Jazz cannot tell if he’s looking for something or if he’s just looking. 

“You run silent.” Prowl points, now, at his chassis. Oh. That’s true. Jazz does run silent! Why, he isn’t completely sure, but it’s been quite beneficial in his line of work. “You move silently, as well.” He gestures to Jazz’s hands now. Jazz pauses. Was.. did he crash cause he was startled? He’s never really had that happen around him before. Sure, he‘s heard plenty, but he's never seen it.

”Oh! Yeah! Pretty neat, huh? You can feel my engine through my chassis though, so I ain’t totally immune.” He shimmies, and Prowl’s optics linger. Jazz smiles, and Prowl’s optics then dart to look at his face.

“I see.” He says, but he doesn't. It’s way too subtle to see, it’s only obvious if he’s revving, and even then really to touch. 

Sure, you can hear his engine when he revs, but that’s intentional, anyways. Jazz presses himself to the bars, and takes note of how Prowl’s wings dip. Just the smallest amount. He’s uneasy, at least a little. That’s fine, Jazz can work fine with uneasy.

”You come down for every convict you catch, Prowl?” Jazz grins, and he can almost see the genuine distress cross Prowl’s face.

“First of all, no. Second of all, you are not a convict. A convict is one who has been both arrested and convicted of their crimes by a judge and a jury of their peers. You are jailed, to be simple.” He pulls out a datapad and looks at it. It’s being held far enough that Jazz could rip it from his hands. 

“Right, right. Don’t get police terms wrong to a cop, eh?” He wriggles his wrist to slot up against the bars. He can shove his way through with just the right jab. Prowl doesn’t move in any way to signify he sees this. 

“I am not technically a cop. I am a sergeant.” He frowns. Jazz nods, slowly.

“The difference?” 

“ Cop , at the origin of the term, is an acronym. It stands for chief of police. In more modern terminology, it is referenced as a slang term intending any police officer. So, in modern slang, I am a cop. In official Terminology, I am a sergeant.” Prowl explains this slowly, and Jazz slowly nods. He didn’t know that. He doesn’t know a lot of stuff.

Well, he does, just not the stuff Prowl knows. Prowl is a social blind spot, an optic into a perspective he’s never known.

Jazz likes to have the full picture. This is what he’s been waiting for. The world is his canvas, he’s got a bunch of paint, but he’s fraggin colorblind. Prowl is his guiding hand. He can work with that. 

“Huh. Didn't know that.” Jazz hums. Prowl just stares. Jazz adjusts his arm again, and Prowl once again shows no indication that he's noticed. 

This might be too easy? 

He doesn’t think about it too much before rotating his arm just right, and shooting it through the bars. He reaches out for the datapad as he goes, and to his horror, Prowl shows no real reaction besides moving the datapad a bit to the right.

 “I would not recommend you do that again,” He says, idly, “Your permissions are limited. If you want them to be stricter, I can have that arranged.” That’s something you should say with a smirk, but Prowl’s expression doesn’t change. Is he being serious? Jazz pulls his arm back in and shakes his head.

“Primus, mech. You’ve got quite the optics.” Prowl nods.

“Yes. Very few things go unseen.” He says. A slight scowl takes him. 

“Awe, what’s wrong?” He presses his face between the bars, and watches as Prowl thinks this over. 

“I-“ 

“Yo! Prowl! You ain’t supposed to be down here!” A voice comes from somewhere off in the distance, and Prowl’s wings flinch. Jazz smiles. Prowl turns away from him. 

“I am off hours. I do not expect compensation for-“ The mech, small and red, comes around the corner and shushes him. 

“Hey, hey! Not what I meant! You’re on medical leave still. Get outta here!” He jostles Prowl on the shoulder. Prowl looks away from him. 

“I am just-“ 

“Go! Go on, get!” He points at the exit, and Prowl pauses. The red mech jabs the digit again, and Prowl relents. There is a moment of this odd silence before Prowl looks to Jazz. Then, he turns around, hikes his wings up his back, and leaves. 

And that’s that. The Red mech gives Jazz a look before Shaking his head, turning back around. Jazz purses his lips.

Medical leave? It was probably from the crash. Jazz’s chronometer is off, and he can’t see the star, so he has to presume that it has, at least, been 2 days. Yes? How long should crash recovery take?

Jazz comes to remember why he was so late to events growing up. Huh. Checks out. Ambiguous recovery time later, except he hasn’t recovered so… less than that. 

Jazz frowns. He’s alone again. Gone as quick as it came. 

It gives him time to think.

Chapter Text

Prowl hates being prompted as security for public events. He is not set up for it often, but last cycle demanded it. Now, he finds himself in the medbay. 

For absolutely no reason that is clear or apparent, Prowl was shot. Twice. 

It is foolish to suspect rationality from criminals, but he still sits with grit dentae and a grimace. First Aid is bustling around the room, getting everything sorted out and whatnot, while Prowl sits. 

Prowl does not like sitting and doing nothing. Prowl feels useless when he has to do this. Yes, he understands why, however it does not do much of anything to mend this feeling. This intimate and deep feeling of uselessness. He is left to cope with this feeling. 

First Aid drops a datapad by for him before sweeping out of the room. Prowl picks it up and skims it over. Novels, other decorated distractions to keep him from trying to leave. Which, in short, they will not keep him here for long, but he will allow them to toy with his fancy for now. 

The first novel is, on appearance a stupid romance novel. It has a tab on it, and it is marked as one of First Aid’s favorites . How lovely. He opens it to the first page and begins reading.

He rapidly finds it is below his interests. So, he does not put interest into it. He drops it and picks up one of the other datapads. 

It is a statistics report from the medbay covering the last few vorn. This is good. It is mostly inventory statistics, but it is still a number it chew on. It will keep the tactical network off of his central mind for a little while.

This keeps Prowl distracted for a long while. He knows he is being distracted actively, but he opts to keep that thought closer to the back of his processor. It is not important, as of this klik. 

Once he checks the time again, it is about three joors later. He picks his head up properly, and glances to the window out of the medbay door. 

There is a scramble. An, almost nonsensical, racing of mechs back and forth. Prowl sits up a bit more, and his wounds ache. Without thinking, he clasps a hand over the initial location of the injury. It is on his abdomen, on the right side. One of the shots went straight through, while the other lodged a piece of debris quite deep in him. 

First Aid informed him that he had managed to get everything out, and that Prowl just needed to sit. Prowl does not like to sit . So, he moves to stand. 

His injury does not feel any better. It feels worse, remarkably sore now. He is aware this is how injuries of such a nature work (he’s been shot before (100% (I know that was never a doub-))), but it does not do much to soothe his pain.  

There is a resistance. He looks down and see the spark monitor attached to his chest. It is a curious piece of tech, and he turns around to face the monitor itself. His sparkrate is elevated, yet not enough to be concerning. He is sure he has been told at some point in time that his spark tends to run a bit higher than the average mech’s, so he allows himself to presume all is well. 

He would be told if all was in fact not well. 

But as of now, he decides he must see what is going on. So, off the spark monitor goes. It shrieks, but nobody makes a movement towards his room. There must be something going on outside. 

For a brief moment, when his pedes meet the floor and his weight shifts downward, he is sure he is dying.  

It feels like everything inside him rearranges itself, and he is not entirely sure that is not what just happened. He has been shot before, this should not be quite the issue it is. Maybe it is because he’s never had something lodged in him for so long? 

He hates being security, yes, but that does not mean he will not do as told. All Pit opened when the first shot was fired, narrowly scraping one of his fellow officers. Then he was shot. Then he was shot again .

With the aid of his tactical network, Prowl is a pretty good shot. Good enough, where as he saw the mech attempting to pack up his gun and bolt, he pulled out his own and, while steadying his quivering hands, shot him. In both knees. The recovery crew managed to find him crawling away, and they are apparently going to toss him in the cells after giving him ample medical care. 

That is good. It is what they are supposed to do. 

Prowl is not intimately concerned with how the station functions, considering how so long as the mechs who are ahead of him who do their jobs so he can do his. They often do, and if they do not, they know he will have a word with them. 

He goes to the door and pushes it open. A nurse stops dead in his tracks and stares at Prowl for a moment. 

“Ah! You’re not… you.. oh, you’re leaking a little, sir.” He grimaces and gestures down at Prowl’s wound. He tracks the leakage in his systems to its source and marks it. It is small, overall irrelevant. He has a cycle at least including his regular energon burnage rates. Counting the tactical network into that drops the number a bit too low, so he chooses to ignore it. For now.

“I noticed.” He answers, much too late. 

“I see. Well, why don’t you go sit down? We’ll-“

“What is happening?” Prowl grips the doorframe tightly. The nurse looks down the hall briefly, before looking back to him.

“I.. it’s nothing you won’t know when you come back on duty, sir.” He nods firmly, and Prowl cannot help his glare. 

“If I demand such information-“

“While you’re on medical leave, as written by First Aid, I am allowed to deny you any information that might add as a stressor to a patient in need of rest.” The nurse says it with a tight nod, and Prowl just watches. The nurse then pulls out a small cloth and dabs the leaking wound with it. 

“It should not be leaking.” He scowls, and the nurse scoffs.

“You fragged up the welds when you stood. Nothing was settled yet, you jostled your guts around and they popped the weld. Minor, but still. Go sit down, at least.” The nurse ends up having him hold the cloth to his wound as he relents, going to sit down. 

He only relented because he was tired, anyway. He would never give up with such ease in any other situation. He clenches his fist on the cloth. He is useless now. What good is a provider of the community if he provides nothing?

All Prowl does now is recover. He crashes, he recovers. He gets shot, he recovers. He gets kicked a little too hard in training, and that is another five cycles wasted in the medbay. He is not old enough for this. 

First Aid just says he is more prone to joint issues, but that does not clarify anything. 

First Aid also tried to discuss removing his tactical network, which was deemed an utterly foolish idea by both Prowl and said network itself. 

He told Prowl it would favor against its own termination, but Prowl knows it is not sentient enough for such a thing.  

It works for him. 

Prowl would ask First Aid what exactly is wrong with him that he keeps getting injured and such, but he would rather just not know than be prodded at so much as to figure it out. He will take temporary fixes over lost cycles of testing. 

So, instead of doing anything he feels could be beneficial to anyone at all, he does what he is told. Because despite his reservations, he finds sitting down does make him feel better. Unfortunately.

He sits very patiently, because Prowl is very good at being patient, when the door opens once more.

“If you wanted to die you could have just said something. Idiot.” First Aid passes something off to someone in the hall—and when he enters the room fully, Prowl notes that he locks the door (88% chance that there is an emergency)—before fully turning to prowl. 

“I do not-“ 

“When I tell you to stay still, I mean it. Now you’re out here popping welds like it’s a game!” He shakes his head, and he does that sound he always does when he is frowning. 

First Aid, despite the mask, is very easy to read. 

“I am aware of the seriousness of the situation.” Prowl notes this, and First Aid shakes his head. 

“Yeah, yeah. Get on the berth and lay back down. I have to patch this up.” He walks over to a cabinet and opens it, rummaging through it until he pulls out materials that Prowl can identify as welding materials. 

He approaches as Prowl sits down, slinging his legs onto the berth properly, keeping a hand on the cloth as he does. He feels his insides shift again, and it is masterfully uncomfortable. 

First Aid winces as he pulls the cloth off.

”Okay, I’m not gonna do surgery or anything on it again. I’m gonna seal it, and if more problems come up, I'll fix them then.” He shrugs loosely, and Prowl nods. 

Prowl enjoys watching First Aid work. It is someone doing something they know they are good at doing. He wipes off the plating and sanitizes the area before moving onto the weld itself. Prowl does not know a lot about the medical field, but First Aid moves with such a fluid precision that Prowl has a firm trust in his abilities. 

First Aid’s certifications are also very easy to find. He keeps his proper graduation certificate from the academy in his office, and everything else is saved into his file. Prowl, and any others who check, know where he went to school, how long he was in school, and who taught him. He has track records of working under some of the best medics and surgeons in all of Cybertron. 

Even within his time here, he has gotten better. 

Prowl has asked him in the past why he chooses to work here. His certifications, his experience, he is fit to work in central Iacon, or at least Praxian General. 

‘ I do,’ he had said, and his voice carried the smile across, ‘ I work at the hospital when I’m not working here. Well, I’m mostly on call, really. They’re good there, so they don’t call too often.’ He had laughed then, pulling his tools away in that brief moment. 

Prowl deeply appreciated First Aid for all he did. As a medic, from his time as a nurse, all of it. Most medics have earned some sort of respect from him, and he lingers on that thought as First Aid works. 

He shuffles some parts around, warns Prowl before he does something that hurts, wipes any loose energon away, and generally continues his focus. 

Then, he finishes. He speaks in that smiling tone yet again as he steps back, giving Prowl a firm hand on the shoulder. 

“Okay! Now, stay here, and don’t go around doing anything until I give the OK, got it?” He locks visor with Optics, and Prowl nods. 

“How long will that be?” Prowl asks, and First Aid lets his arm fall to his side. He seems to think this over before giving a vague shrug.

“Before you can walk? Cycle or two. Then just take it easy.” He gives Prowl a thumbs up before wiping his hands off with a different cloth. 

“It feels a bit.. much.” He admits, and First Aid nods.

“It is. You’re just..” he gestures the cloth at Prowl, “y’know. Different. It’s no problem, we just have to take things differently with you.” He puts the cloth on the counter, beginning to properly put his tools away. 

Prowl frowns. He does not want to be different. 

“What happened?” He decides to ask First Aid, who turns his head to Prowl slowly. 

“We had a… situation. Earlier, not now. It’s fine now. He’s fine.” The usage of a proper pronoun gets Prowl suddenly, and he moves to sit up. First Aid points at him, and then points down. Prowl, unfortunately, obeys. 

“ Who is fine?” Prowl insists, and First Aid hesitates before turning back to the tools. 

“Cliff. There was an accident, this and that. He’s fine though.” 

Cliffjumper. He was the guard watching Jazz. 

Jazz.

“What? Is-“ 

“He’s going to be fine. The prisoner is… a different turbofox to catch.” He says it calmly. That is a bad sign. First Aid is professional in his work. That did take a lot of time to properly work into him, but he is professional now. (Being good at your job and being professional are different. Very different.)

In his average Cycle-to-cycle life, however, Prow finds that First Aid is.. lively . Others insist his tendency to joke gives him a good berthside manner. Prowl does not like it. But he supposes that he cannot stop First Aid from being so lightsparked. Nor will he try to. 

Because he has been told such things are unkind. 

First Aid does not speak again as he quickly finishes up and leaves the room. Before Prowl can properly form a question to progress the interaction. 

Right, Jazz. Primus, it all comes back to Jazz, does it not? Prowl grips his helm in one hand, putting the other over his fresh weld. 

He is okay. Nothing bad is going to happen to him, and he will be okay. 

He always has been. He is not particularly afraid of this, per se, but he is in fact concerned once more about his longer than average recovery times. He decides he will bring it up formally with First Aid another ti—

His wings pick up an odd vibration. He flicks them wide and out, to try and read as much of the air as physically possible. 

It is coming from the—

—the vent. The (73% it is Jazz. It is Jazz . Quote, ‘The prisoner is… a different turbofox to catch ’ term: catch. Useage: potentially literal, turbofox: used as a metaphor to illustrate the is, or has thus been, hard to contain. The Prisoner: Jazz. Cliffjumper was guard on duty, must be Jazz.) vent grate shakes. 

Prowl is sure that, in that moment, he is going to die. 

He cannot move. He cannot fight. Jazz will come down and kill him. And there is not a thing he can do to stop this. 

The grate tilts downwards, and then is sucked into the vent. Silence.

Jazz’s head pops out of the vent. 

“Aha! There you are! Been lookin for you.” He laughs. Prowl stares. He does not know what to say. What he should say. “You didn’t come and see me!” Jazz bemoans. Prowl continues to stare.

“I.. apologize. I got injured.” He gestures loosely to his weld. Jazz hums. 

“Oh, Primus. I didn’t know! Get well soon then, huh?” He frowns. Upside down it looks almost like he is smiling. 

“Yes, I am working on it.” He frowns himself. Jazz nods intently before looking around the room.

“Medbay, huh? Interestin. Well, I’ll be seein you!” He sticks an arm out and waves. Prowl almost sits up. 

“You are going back to your cell?” He asks, and Jazz laughs. Loudly.

“Nah, not yet. I’m innocent, after all!” He gives Prowl a toothy grin. 

“You are not. They caught you in the act.” Prowl points this out, and Jazz yanks his arm back in. 

“Aye. It’s whatever. I got better places to be, anyhow. But I will be seein you, okay?” He says this, and Prowl takes it briefly as a threat. His commlines are on, but for some reason the thought of using them does not cross his mind.

He does not want Jazz to leave. First off, yes, Jazz is a criminal and must pay, but also because this would conclude the mystery. Jazz would likely leave town, and Prowl would never see him again. 

Prowl would never get answers. 

“You are going to go back to Polyhex?” He frowns deeper, and Jazz just stares at him for a moment. 

“I dunno. I’ll go where I go.” He says with a laugh, and then he is gone. Just as quick as he came. Prowl does not know what to say. 

Prowl does not want Jazz to leave forever. Prowl does not want to have no answers. 

Prowl wants to know what is wrong with Jazz. Prowl wants to know everything there is to know about him.

Prowl needs to know. 

Chapter Text

Skids is on patrol! 

Skids is currently burning crazy rubber. He’s going a bit faster than he should be, but he’s got a job to do! He speeds as so to make sure everyone else doesn’t speed. It’s a very important job.

“ Skids, come to the alley on fourth. You’re going to want to see this.” The comm is jarring, but he pings back an acknowledgment and speeds his way over to fourth street. 

He transforms on the corner, stretching his arms out as he does. The joints pop shortly, and he shakes them back into place. Much looser than before, he hurries his way down the street. He can see which alley was meant, by all the signs warning off civilians. 

There’s a mech on the edge, who takes note of him as he comes over. 

“Skids.” The mech says with a nod, stepping aside. Skids gives him a pleasant grin, strutting past. 

“Skids! There you are!” A mech grips him by the shoulder and spins him so they’re making optic contact. 

“Smokescreen! Hey, what did you mechs need me for?” He pats Smokey on the shoulder, and the mech gives him a hesitant glance. 

“We want you to look at Something before Nightbeat gets here.” He says it slowly, and Skids nods. Smokey seems to hesitate before his shoulders droop. “It’s nasty.” 

He takes Skids by the wrist and leads him further down the alley, and then Skids sees it. 

The corpse. 

The first word that comes to mind is maimed. A mess of limbs and energon lay there, and Skids almost purges his tanks.

As he approaches, the mech appears to be a medic. Or what’s left of one. Primus. The corpse has the medic colors, red and white, but it’s hard to tell with all the congealed energon. His face, what’s left of it, is morphed into a face of terror. One of his optics is missing, his arms are bent at incorrect angles, and Skids cannot help but think it appears that, in death, the mech was bisected .  

“This.. this is..” he doesn’t finish his sentence. They both know it. 

Jazz. 

“I thought he was contained.” Skids can’t hide the horror creeping into his voice. 

“He.. he got out. Ripped off Cliff’s arm and burst out of the cell, apparently. Then he just.. vanished.” Smokey shakes his head. 

Skids kneels down next to the biggest hunk of corpse, the abdomen itself, and starts taking mental notes. 

It’s obviously Jazz’s work. The scene is brutal, but clean. All marks are cut and dry, done by a very sharp and very well maintained blade. The corpse is chunked off in such a way you’d expect it would be done in order to make it easier to lug off, but it remains.

Another civilian, a medic this time. Jazz has a history targeting randoms, but a medic? Seems.. unlike his history. Medics, nurses and other such staff have always been left unharmed by him. This.. this has to mean something. He must be making a point. But what? 

“What’s his designation?” Skids calls back, and he hears Smokey step closer. There’s a hushed silence and the sound of whispering.

Skids stands fully now, and turns to look at Smokey. The mech is looking at the medic’s head, a good five meters away.

”Ambulon, no city-state Marked. Medic at Praxian General. Apparently a close personal friend of First’s.” Smokey grimaces as he says it. Skids nods.

”That.. isn’t going to go over well.” First Aid is… Skids doesn’t want to think about that. 

“You think that’s bad? Check this out.” Smokey jabs a digit at a wall and grimaces. 

Drawn, in Energon, is an odd sort of shape, like a box with no top. However, the tips of it are carved into points. Skids bites his tongue as he thinks.

”What is it?” He asks, and Smokey laughs. 

“It’s a fragging death curse, is what it is.” He aimlessly walks over to the wall. Skids squints.

”Like, literally? Or..” His words fall off as Smokey turns to face him with a flourish.

The shape is almost flush with his height, and it matches the curve of his chevron. 

“You.. you think it's a threat to you?” Skids speaks slowly. Smokey shakes his head. 

“No, not me.” He turns to look at it. “Not me.” He says again. Then, he turns to face Skids again. “I’m a bit too tall for it. However, it's almost down to the centimeter of my brother .”

——

“Alright! I have.. two Primas and a Vector. Read ‘em and weep.” Bee laughs as he flashes his cards, and Cliff frowns. 

“Really? Taking out a mech with only one arm? Harsh.” He waves his stump around, and Bee shakes his head.

“What, was all of your luck kept in that half of your arm?” He whacks it lightly, and Cliff leans back on the berth, snickering. 

He’s filled out probably like a dozen reports about what happened, and now he’s trying to get some rest. Bee came to visit him all the way from Iacon. 

He said it would be a good excuse to come visit anyhow. Cliff hadn’t commented, but agreed. He missed Bee, after all. It’s not often they get to talk anymore. 

The door opens slowly. Bee turns to look, and a nurse pokes their head in. 

“Hey! How are we doing here?” They ask, and Bee gives a thumbs up. Cliff nods along, and the nurse grins. They begin to say something before they pull their head out of the doorway, quickly. 

Their hand is kept in place, keeping it from closing. They’re talking to someone. 

Bee turns back and gives Cliff a quizzical look. He shrugs. Really, it could be anyone. Until of course, it’s proven to not be anyone, because the nurse steps aside, and Prowl’s silhouette fills the doorway.

“Primus-“ Cliff starts, but is quickly silenced by Prowl entering the room. He moves almost like a shadow, sifting through the room smoothly and fast. 

“Cliffjumper.” He says. Cliff waits for him to finish the thought, but he doesn’t. Cliff frowns. He forgot Prowl can be this way. 

“Hey, Prowl.” He nods. Prowl’s optics widen slightly. 

“Cliffjumper.” He says again. Cliff almost asks him if he wants something, but he starts again. “The incident.” He gestures to Cliff’s arm, or rather the lack of it. “I would like to know the details.” 

Cliff exvents. He’s sure to make it loud enough that someone even as dense as Prowl can get he doesn’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t back off. Cliff frowns, and Bee smacks him lightly on the hand.

“I’ll see you later Cliff, yeah? I’m staying nearby for a few.” He waves and walks out of the room. Cliff rubs his optics.

“What? I filled out a bunch of reports on it, if you’d just read-“

“I have read the reports. I have read them all. I need to hear what happened from your vocaliser, however. To obtain a full understanding of the situation itself.” Prowl has a tendency to speak fast when he’s excited. Or whatever his equivalent of excitement is. 

“I..” Cliff straightens himself despite his soreness. He takes note of the patching on Prowl’s abdomen. Right. The whole.. parade or whatever ordeal was only a few cycles ago. “He— Jazz— was muttering something, so I went over to his cell to check on him. He’s all the way in the back so I get pretty close to the front of the cell, and he-he moves fast , mech. He runs up, grabs my arm through those bars, and uses them as leverage. Rips it clean off,and next I know he’s…gone. The vent cover’s down and he’s gone.” Cliff rubs his face again, and Prowl just… stares.

It’s scary. Cliff doesn’t really like Prowl one-on-one, because he gets… this way. He’s awkward in a way that’s uncomfortable. Like he’s dissecting you with his optics. Tearing you to shreds mentally, calculating your demise. 

The rumors about the mech are never ending. Really, and they often make him sound much scarier than he actually is. 

Some mechs say Prowl’s capable of calculating when and how you die. Prowl’s not a medic, and he doesn’t seem to have anything similar to those capabilities, so Cliff doubts this. 

Right now, Prowl continues to lean over him, staring him down. 

“I see.” He finally says. He draws back a bit, and his lips tighten into a fine line. He looks.. rough. 

Cliff doesn’t really focus on these things often, but he does take note of how deep set Prowl’s optics are right now. The dimness in them as well, along with the bite marks on his lower lip. Cliff’s worked with him enough to know it’s about as close to a nervous habit as Prowl gets. 

A lot of Prowl’s habits can be simplified down to just being.. a part of Prowl. He just is a certain way, and that way tends to be on the colder side, The calculated side, the.. y’know side.

“Yeah. Real nasty.” Cliff snorts, and Prowl’s optics zero in on him. He opens his mouth to speak again when there’s a commotion in the hall. Prowl’s mouth snaps shut and he turns to look at the door. Normally his movements are more stiff, but it seems the wound is making him… loose. Cliff isn’t gonna mention this, cause a loose Prowl is better than a stiff Prowl. Cliff snickers over this, and all that earns him is a flick of the wings. 

Prowl moves to the door and leaves without another word. So much for that. 

—-

First Aid is making a ruckus. He is marching down the hall (angry/upset/displeased 79.065%) quickly, mumbling about something.

Prowl manages to intersect his path, and there is a moment of silence before it appears something in First Aid snaps. 

“ What?” He says it quickly and Prowl would presume it implies intended negative emotion at him . He frowns, considering he has no idea why First Aid could be so cross with him.

“You are upset.” Prowl states this as more a question than anything, but First Aid’s visor then flashes so briefly.

“Glad your optics are fully functional, detective.” He hisses. Prowl tightens his features. He…is not good with hyperbole or sarcasm much. He does know, here and now, that First Aid’s tone and syntax imply (anger/rage/upset 91.653%) his emotion. He is mad. 

“I…yes. You were causing a commotion and-“

“Okay? Yeah, I’m causing a fragging commotion- My best friend was just found dead in an alleyway.” First Aid says this like Prowl should know this already. He has been on medical leave, he had no- “So you and your serial killer friend can frag right off. I’m… I’m taking some time off. I called in a favor for someone else to fill in for me. He’s on call instead of being here all the time. I already sent in my slag to the right mechs.” He says this with yet another Hiss, and Prowl pauses.

“He is not my friend.” Prowl keeps his tone sharp, and First Aid scoffs. 

“ Yeah , okay.” He waves a hand, and his voice cracks on the second word. His rage is shifting to upset. 

“I am sorry about your friend, First Aid.” Prowl grimaces slightly, and First Aid stares at him a moment. He then scoffs, turning away and hurrying out of sight.

Prowl watches him go. 

It is okay. He has more important things to attend to. 

He stands in the hall for a moment longer, digits twitching briefly before he turns on his struts and leaves. Prowl is making for his office. He walks, not in any particular rush but still with some purpose, around a corner skimming the nameplates outside offices as he goes. 

His optics linger on Barricade’s for a brief klik longer than it should, but he continues onward. 

His office has a lock on the door. Prowl enjoys locks and the protection they give him. As he goes into his room, he only locks the first lock.

Prowl can unlock that lock from a distance, which is why that is the one he chooses to keep done when he is in his office. He picks up a datapad off the floor. He does not know who dropped it, but he frowns at it anyhow. 

Turning it on, he reads it to see if it holds any significance. 

Not a direct one, it appears, so he ditches it on his desk. 

He keeps a hand on the very edge of the desk as he walks around it, dragging his hand slowly. As he approaches his chair, he silently catalogues the placement of everything in the room. 

As he always does. 

The angle of the desk, of his filing cabinets, how open they each are (to a precise numerical amount! Using an algorithm—(hush up)), and so on. He exvents. 

Jazz has killed again. Of course he has. He is a murderer, after all. And yet… Prowl finds himself intrigued. Still. He does not know how to not be intrigued. Jazz is beyond a specimen of interest, he is…different. 

Prowl is well versed in being different, of course, he has been told numerous times throughout his entire life that he is such. Even Jazz himself noted it. 

Prowl sits in his Chair, slowly, picking up a datapad as he does. He needs to find Jazz. He needs to find him. 

He feels as if finding Jazz will equate to the finding of something else. Something inside of himself. Not in the way that one would think, but in the way that Prowl is sure the uncovering of information on a… specimen such as Jazz could prove useful in other facets of other things. He is sure of it. 

This pertaining to his oddness, the unusual charisma Jazz possesses even though he is much odder than Prowl. He frowns. 

Prowl is not sure if he has friends. The thought comes to him slowly. 

Of course I have friends, is the instant refuting thought, but it is silenced rapidly the filling request:

Name one mech who would rather spend time with you than anyone else.

He scoffs. Friendship is.. pointless. Fundamentally, he just needs to do his job, and do it well.

He is good at his job. He turns off the datapad. The room is dark. He forgot to turn the lights on.

Prowl exvents. He has work to do. He has documents to read. He is… busy.

Prowl is busy.