Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

All the sounds of the city.

The highway traffic rumbling over a nearby crossing, both lanes crawling with congested commuters. The engines of aerial transports that whirr past through the divide. The heavy clangs of steel and roaring machinery that can be heard from a distant industrial complex. The voices of mechs talking - an indistinguishable, ongoing murmur.

The music.

His audial fins twitch. The band that's playing at a nightclub one or two tiers down has paused from flowing to one song to another. His tail quits keeping time to the beat and he vents, disappointed. They're a good band. Talented. He wishes they'd keep playing.

It helps keep him out of his head.

A few minutes pass, then half an hour and the music doesn't start back up. He lifts his head from his paws, audials on a swivel. Traffic. Engines. Machinery. Voices. No music. He stands up and stretches, wincing as the movement pulls at all the scars and half-healed damage littering his frame. It's been less than a week but he's pretty sure he's gonna be stuck with a limp for good this time.

Thanks, Axel.

Thanks for nothing.

He walks to the edge of the barrier and pokes his head through the bars, looking down into the divide. Way down to the hazy smog that obscures the lowest levels. He wonders where he might find enough fuel to curb the emptiness in his tank.

"Hey, beat it, mutt!"

He jerks his head back through the bars and scitters away from a mech who's stomping toward him with territorial gestures. He's been on his paws all day searching for fuel and a place to rest for the night, but there's no place that's safe. No place where he's not somehow bothering somebody. The city streets are a hard place to try and live, especially for a mechawolf who's never been on his own before.

But it's a hell of a lot better than some other situations he could name.

He moves on, sidling through the shadows and alleyways and avoiding the nightlife not because he hates them but because they hate him. No one wants to be around a dirty, beat-up stray. Not a day has passed since he escaped that he hasn't been yelled at or had things thrown at him, and he's come to take being ignored as a kindness.

Even though it hurts.

He doesn't like to be alone, despite his inability to recall a single moment when close proximity to a mech didn't involve some form of abuse. He sees other mechawolves with their owners, and some look like him: dirty, shy and wary, being dragged around by a mech they wouldn't mourn the loss of. But some are prancing along looking up at their owners with such unwavering loyalty and devotion that it causes a physical ache in his chest to observe it. He's jealous. He wants that for himself. And it always makes him wonder why he has never been good enough to earn what those mechawolves have in their owners: someone who cares about them, trusts them, even loves them.

He'll take the loneliness over what he had with Axel, but it's just something less awful than what he had before. Not something good. Not something he wants.

You were abandoned. Unwanted. We'll find you a new home and a new life. Those are the first words he can ever remember hearing. Beyond that his memories are a muddled cacophony of wrong notes and clashing noise, every instrument out of tune. Perhaps Axel's right. Perhaps he doesn't deserve anything better than abuse and neglect and no chance to prove that he would be loyal and good for a mech who bothered to care for him even the slightest bit.

He wanders the city, makes his way down a tier or two. A train rumbles past on rusted tracks, freight cars liberally smeared with graffiti. Sirens sound in the distance and there's two mechs arguing in a nearby apartment. He doesn't know where he is but he has no home, no place to return to, so he's not lost. Not physically lost anyway. But ever since he can remember he's felt an odd sense of displacement. He wakes up in a cold sterile room and knows somehow that he shouldn't be there. He's sold to a mean drunk and longs to get away, to live elsewhere. He escaped and now he's free, but he still feels like he isn't where he's supposed to be.

He hears music again, stops to listen. Head tilted, audial fins rotating, he moves in the direction of the melody. It's order crafted from chaos. It's a living creature scampering from one place to another with intention but no plans. It's dynamic. It's captivating.

It's him.

He is Jazz.

He sits in the alley behind the bar that's playing the music - his music - and listens. It's muffled, but the street out front is busy and he knows he'll probably be chased away if anyone spots him trying to find a better vantage point. It's a sleazy-looking establishment but whoever's in there playing clearly knows his stuff. He - Jazz - isn't going to risk missing out.

He's hungry, but music is as important to him as fuel so he stays and listens. Lies down and feels sleepy and thumps his tail a little because he's almost happy. Axel never played music in his dingy little flat. That mech watched noisy holovids and yelled a lot at the wall or Jazz or his neighbors, but there was never any music. There were sometimes gunshots out on the street. Mechs with modded engines who liked everyone to hear they'd paid for upgrades. Sirens, which are almost music to Jazz because they tug at non-existent remnants of memory files that never could have existed. There was never any true music, though. Never any jazz.

The melody ebs and flows and Jazz shifts his head on his paws and sighs through his vents. He thinks of his cage back in Axel's flat, with its creaky hinges and thin bedding. He doesn't miss it, not really, but it's the place he thinks of when he thinks of things like certainty and security. He had spent a lot of time in that cage. He was locked in there whenever Axel was out, because his owner didn't trust him. He was in there at night too, locked or not, because Axel couldn't fit in there. The mech could bang on the bars and yell to his spark's content, but if he wanted to hurt Jazz he had to drag him out first. In a way, that cage had been the only place Jazz had ever felt a semblance of safety. On the streets there is no certainty, security or safety. There are times like now when he finds a secluded spot to rest and remain unbothered but it rarely lasts long, and never long enough for him to consider attempting to settle in the general area. This city doesn't like strays, and the only other strays Jazz sees are even more flighty and reclusive than he is. He has tried a few times to approach them, to make a friend who might be able to help him find fuel, but they all seem afraid of him. They stare at him like he's not one of them. Like he's the outcast he feels he is.

Jazz falls into recharge to the muffled sound of his music and dreams a dream that's been coming to him in bits and pieces since he woke up on that sterile steel table: a dream of a life he never lived. He dreams he's a mech, walking on two legs. He has responsibilities. A job. He has friends but he can't see their faces and doesn't know their names. And there is something important to him, something he knows he does not want to lose. He thinks it's a reflection of himself as a mech - it has his colors. Black and white. And a little bit of red - he doesn't think he has any red, but it's been a while since he saw his real reflection anyway. He hears sirens. He remembers sirens. His own. Someone else's. He remembers gunshots and yelling and sirens...

His optics snap open. The rest of the dream fades but the sirens remain. They're growing louder. The bar music has stopped and the air feels cold. The street traffic has slowed but Jazz feels an energy in the air that wasn't there before. Something is happening.

He lifts his head from his paws and points his audial fins forward. The sirens are stationary now. There's yelling. Jazz expects to hear gunshots but there isn't any. The sirens cease. The yelling continues. Orders. Defiance. Jazz hears running pedesteps.

A small red mech darts into the alley and crouches along the wall, back to Jazz, oblivious to his presence. He transforms one of his hands into a blade. There's other rapid pedesteps. Two other mechs enter the alley and they get their backs to the wall behind the smaller mech, also arming themselves with blades taken from their subspace. They whisper to each other, postures tense like coiled springs. Jazz sees spatters of energon on their plating and wonders if it's theirs or someone else's. From what he's seen living on the lower-tier streets, it's probably someone else's.

There's two other sets of running pedesteps approaching, one heavy and clanking, the other light and quick. The three mechs in the alley all crouch a little, prepared for violence, and Jazz looks behind him to see what kind of an exit route he has in case he's spotted. Too late, he realizes that the alley he's in is a dead end.

He can only hope these dangerous mechs have more important things to do than cutting up a lame, dirty stray.

At the alley entrance another mech sprints into view and nearly trips as he twists out of reach of a slashing blade. He skids to a stop and raises a blaster, posture confrontational as he orders them to drop their weapons. On his shoulders and flared doorwings Jazz sees the glowing outline of law enforcement decals and...

...and he's black and white and red, and Jazz suddenly wonders if the reflection he sees in his dream that's so important to him really is a reflection at all, or if it's something else. Someone else.

The three mechs in the alley split up, moving fast. A bulky blue mech bulls onto the scene and the winged one shouts something - a warning. There's shots fired. One of the bladed mechs stumbles and energon sprays in a livid pink arc as the blue mech - he has enforcer decals too - is stabbed in the side. He's stabbed again as he crumples to his knees - the small red mech is fast and lethal, slashing up under the enforcer's armored chest plate. Then the red mech's helm is torn open in a bright blast of blue and he drops beside the bulky mech who's struggling to get up, vents heaving, hands scraping through the puddle of energon - his own energon that's pouring out of him in thick gushing streams.

Jazz watches, plating clamped, pressed close to the filthy alley ground in desperate hopes he'll go unnoticed. The winged enforcer is still fighting the two bigger mechs. One of them is shot in the arm and leg, moving slow. The other despite his size is fast and violent. His plating is thick, armored, and he lashes out and grabs hold of the enforcer's blaster like he doesn't even feel the searing fire - rips it away and crushes it. He picks the mech up by the throat, pins him against the graffitied wall so they're optic to optic. Then he grabs his chevroned helm and smashes it into the metal brickwork repeatedly, angrily, and Jazz thinks of Axel. Axel liked doing things like that.

The enforcer struggles, clutching at the hand clamped around his throat and attempting to protect his helm. The strangled sound of pain that escapes him has Jazz suddenly lifting his head, a growl rumbling deep in his chest. The enforcer's optics flicker and go dark, his frame seizes and falls limp and the big mech tosses him to the ground with a dark chuckle. He kicks him hard enough to crush plating and Jazz barks, a rough snarling sound that tears out of his throat like a wild thing. It startles him as well as the two mechs left standing - the last thing he wanted was to draw their attention to himself.

"Just a street mutt" the injured mech mutters. "Go on, kill the fragger and let's get outta here."

The bigger mech reaches for the blade he dropped, turns toward the winged enforcer with it and before Jazz can think he's on his paws, growling. He paces forward with teeth bared and plating flared, defensive. Protective. The stubs of his claws - they've barely had time to grow back in from when they were hacked off - scrape on the ground as he extends them. He's never used them on anyone before. He's never dared to bite or scratch and even the thought of attacking a mech makes him sick to his empty tank. Not the act itself, the consequences thereof. But he doesn't back down until he walks the two mechs out of the alley and stands in the entrance, pistons loaded to lunge if they dare attempt to pass him.

"Fraggin' hell" one of them says. "I'd shoot ya, stupid glitch." He turns to the other mech. "Why'd ya have to go 'n break that fragger's gun?"

"Forget it." The big mech thumps the injured one's shoulder and turns away.

"Hey, what about Tripwire?"

The big mech looks back. Looks at Jazz. "He's dead. You feel like getting your face ripped off for a bunch of scrap metal, be my guest."

The other mech stares at the smaller dead mech, then at Jazz, then he turns away. Jazz sits and watches them until they're both out of sight, plating shifting back into place, claws retracting. He looks back at the two enforcers in the alley. The bulky one is still and silent, turning grey in the middle of a glowing pool of pink. The winged one is also motionless, but he's still black and white. And red. Jazz walks over to him, lowers his muzzle near the mech's chevroned helm. It's dented and cracked all over on the left side and the back, some of the damage leaking tiny rivulets.

Jazz stares, feeling troubled, and wonders at himself. He never wanted to draw the attention of those dangerous mechs to himself, but he did. He didn't want to move toward them to make them go away, but he did. He wants to go find someplace safe and undisturbed to spend the rest of the night but he doesn't and he can't fathom why instead of carrying him away, his legs move him closer to the winged enforcer so he can tilt his audial fins forward and listen. There is something wrong with the mech. Something worse than the damage on his helm, the crushed plating on his torso. There's thin trickles of energon running from his mouth and one of his optics and the only sounds Jazz can hear from his systems are ones of strain.

The mech is dying. And as Jazz stands there listening he feels a growing sense of something close to panic in his chest.

Help. He needs to find help. Fast.

He doesn't want to go find someone and try to make them follow him back to the alley, but his legs have taken on a mind of their own and they lead him away down the street. They have him poking into open doors and running alongside traffic and he barks and wags his tail at mechs for the first time in forever and looks them in the optic, saying follow me in the only way he knows how. They yell at him to get lost or ignore him, turning away and the panic in his chest rises. He finds a lone femme standing by herself at a train station, leaned against a light pole absorbed with her data pad. He walks up to her, forcing his tail to wag, jaw loose, smiling. Look, I'm friendly. He knows he's filthy and limping and ugly but he barks softly and keeps wagging his tail and she looks down at him, unafraid. She smiles a little, even looks like she might pity him. She probably owns a mechawolf. She's probably kind to it. Jazz barks again and dances away a little, optics on hers. The femme tilts her helm at him and straightens from where she's leaned against the pole.

"You want me to follow you?"

Yes! Jazz barks and spins and forces his tail to keep wagging. The femme moves toward him and he takes off, running back toward the alley and only slowing to check if the femme is still following. She breaks into a jog. Maybe she can detect his senseless panic.

He leads her back to the alley and darts over to check if he's too late. If the winged enforcer is dead. He's not. Jazz sits beside him as the femme catches up, gasping as she takes in the sight of two enforcers lying in pools of their own energon. Or maybe it's the helmless corpse that disturbs her the most. She fumbles with her comm as she crouches beside Jazz, hovering careful digits over the black and white mech's injuries as she talks to someone online - dispatch, Jazz thinks, though he's not sure what the word means or why he thought it in the first place.

He thinks he's free to go now. His duty is done. But his traitorous legs refuse to budge. They keep him in place beside this black and white mech who reminds Jazz of his dream. Of something important. He sits and stays until sirens sound and more enforcers arrive on scene along with an emergency transport. They're wary of him, but the femme tells them he led her to the dying enforcer and they leave him be when he backs down the alley to sit further away, still keeping watch. The panic is fading and he's tired and hungry but for some reason he stays. Watching. Guarding.

"Can we get a pound unit out here, we got a stray mechawolf on scene." One of the enforcers talks on his comm while looking at Jazz. "I don't think so, no... Yeah, we got one with us... Doesn't seem aggressive but he's a big one, so... yep, I'll keep you updated. Thanks."

Jazz doesn't know what to make of this one-sided conversation but he's instinctively wary of anything that mechs do that has to do with him. He shies away when another enforcer walks toward him a minute later, holding something that looks like a gun. "Hey big guy" he says as he stops and lifts the weapon, pointing it straight as Jazz. "Just stand nice and still me, alright?"

Finally Jazz's legs decide to agree with him about making an escape. But he's tired and weak and he can't move half as fast as he thinks he should. The bolt of white fire from the enforcer's gun clips his hind leg and Jazz feels a shock race through his systems, shutting them down, blocking his access to them. He collapses to the ground and the panic is instantly back again. He can't move. He's trapped.

He shouldn't have stayed.

He shouldn't have gotten involved.

He wonders why he did.

The darkness that greets him offers no answer.

Chapter Text

He doesn't dream. Not really. Given what his dreams are usually like that should be a relief, but it's not. All he sees - when he sees anything - are shards of lightening that stab and pierce his mind and he wants to wake up and escape but he can't. There are voices that are indiscernible - spoken words he can't understand. They fade away, too quiet. Come rushing back loud as thunder. And he can't move, can't respond, can't make it stop.

The first thing Prowl registers when he wakes up is the pain. It's not intense, certainly not the most excruciating he's ever felt. But it's threaded like a web all throughout his processor, latched into the top of his spinal struts and pulling at his optical wiring. It's mental tripwires that he stumbles over when he tries to move and his left optic feels like it might explode.

"There he is." Finally, words he can grasp but he's distracted by the blurry shapes and colors he sees once he forces his optics to open halfway. A shadow with the vauge outline of a Cybertronian frame drifts toward him and a femme's voice asks, "How are you feeling, Lieutenant?"

Prowl isn't sure what he's feeling. He blinks and the dark green and white frame of his precinct's medic comes into focus. Tracer's yellow optics are sharp as she leans toward him. "You with me?"

He tries to nod, winces as those threads of pain coil tight in his spine. He manages a whispered "yes" and Tracer straightens up, glances over at a nearby screen.

"About time." She taps at the keyboard with the professional air she always carries, and most mechs wouldn't notice the soft ex-vent and sinking of her shoulders. "You've been out for nearly four days."

Prowl thinks this information should concern him, but all it does is make him feel tired. Something clearly went wrong on the job or he would be in a regular hospital rather than his department's medical wing. This means extra data work and preventative meetings and his helm hurts and he just wants to go back to sleep. He can't remember the last time he would have chosen sleep over being productive, but he can't remember the last time he was out cold for four days straight, either.

"Lieutenant?"

Prowl blinks. Tracer is tilting her helm at him with a look on her face that he can't quite place. He replays the most recent file in his audio buffer: "Are you in pain anywhere? Does anything hurt?" He thinks for a second. Turns his helm a few degrees to the left, shifts his limbs. "Helm. Optics." His vocalizer is full of static. "Upper spinal struts."

"Mm, ok." Tracer nods and taps at her keys. "Can you see clearly?" When he doesn't respond immediately she holds up a hand. "How many digits?"

He can see clearly - for the most part - but he gives himself a second to be certain. Because he's not certain about much of anything right now. "Three." Tracer nods and drops her hand.

"Good. That's good." More key tapping. "You've had us pretty worried for the past several days, but being this coherent so soon after waking and being able to see clearly are both excellent signs for your recovery."

Prowl watches her absently for a minute before he finally thinks to ask, "What happened?"

"Someone gave you quite the clobbering." It's the kind of thing she would usually say with a smirk, but there is no humor in the medic's expression now. "You suffered blunt force trauma to the helm - rattled your processor a little and damaged a few micro components. Also," Tracer gestures at his midsection, at the mesh patches there that Prowl hadn't noticed before. "You sustained several internal injuries that caused a few complications. Those were blunt force as well." She gives him a raised optical ridge. "You know I'm a firm advocate for riot armor and this is as good an opportunity to convince you to wear it on patrol as I ever saw."

"I can't move as fast as I need to in it." He's too light-weight for that. Riot armor makes him feel like he"s trapped in his own frame. It's alright to stand around in but too cumbersome, too conspicuous for patrol duty. "And I wasn't asking about what happened to me. What was going on before I was knocked out?"

On occasion Tracer's yellow optics can be as piercing as the needles she wields. "You don't remember anything from that night?"

Something about how she asks the question puts Prowl on edge. He looks at her silently, taking a moment to think. His spark sinks with the vauge recollection that something probably happened to his partner and he glances around the quiet medical wing, notices that he's the only patient. Asks softly, "Where is Track Down?"

Tracer's lips flatten into a thin line. "I'm sorry Lieutenant. He was pronounced DoA. There was nothing anyone could do for him."

Dead on arrival. The words circulate like accusatory cryo-condors in his aching mind. They leave no room for uncertainty. No room for anything so illogical as hope. Not this time. The room blurrs out of focus again and the fuzzy shape that is Tracer shifts.

"As for how exactly this all happened" the medic says in a quiet voice. "All I know is that according to dispatch, the last report they received that night was from you, stating that yourself and Track Down were in pursuit of three mechs who had assulted a civilian."

"Supposed civilian." Suspected gang-related dispute, he recalls now. Bits and pieces float to him from the shadowland his memory files had retreated to. A short, cruel-faced mech. A masked one. A hulking thug. No one had called in about the situation - a mech had come racing up to Prowl and Track Down while they were returning from patrol and yelled at them to follow him. He said that one of his buddies was being beaten by a couple of thugs. On alert for a trap, Prowl and his partner had followed him and confronted the thugs in question. The events afterward are blurry and Prowl only remembers the fact that he and Track Down had to chase the accused mechs down. Something must have gone wrong then; a fight or ambush. He reaches a hand up to rub at his optics and finds a drip line leading to a connection in his exposed wrist.

He wonders why Track Down died and he didn't.

"You'll be on bedrest for several days or so." Tracer's voice seeps through the smog of guilt and shame that clouds his already muddled processor. She's quiet until Prowl looks at her. "I'll be monitoring you until I'm certain you're stable so just let me know if you need anything alright? I'll be around."

She walks away to busy herself with other matters, giving him space, and Prowl appreciates it only because he knows she thinks he would. How his entire precinct had come to the conclusion that he preferred to be left alone to deal with emotional pain by himself, he'll never know. His former partner - the one before Track Down - had been the only one to ignore that unspoken assumption. Blatantly so, like he took it as some sort of challenge.

Prowl had never thanked him for it. And he had never thanked that mech for any of the countless other things he could have thanked him for, back when he had the opportunity to. Until he finds him - finds him alive - he's never going to forgive himself for that.

It seems like he's always able to add something to the list of things he can't forgive himself for whenever he thinks of Jazz.

And now he has a new list. One that promises to weigh just as heavy, if not more. Because Track Down is dead. Confirmed dead. There's no room to expect that he'll ever be able to fix anything, say the things he should have said or even just get the opportunity to say that he's sorry. Sorry for not having his partner's back.

Again.

Prowl shutters his optics and Track Down's face appears in front of him, open and honest and smiling about something. The mech had a resting happy face that looked a little out of place in a law enforcement department. For several weeks the department's PR division had attempted to persuade Track Down into switching most of his patrol hours for front desk duty, since he had a good demeanor for customer service. But he had listened instead to Prowl, who convinced him to continue working with him because he needed a partner who was skilled at social interactions. If he's ever going to accomplish what he wants in Iacon's neglected lower-tier districts he needs the mechs who live down there to have at least a neutral opinion of Iacon's law enforcement, and he knows he's not exactly a mech to endear anyone to anything.

That's one of the big things Prowl can add to his new list of things he can't forgive himself for: convincing Track Down to stick with him on gang-riddled streets rather than somewhere safe.

His precinct had tried to switch him over to other work as well, stating that it was a waste of time for a mech with a mind like his to patrol the dangerous streets of his chosen districts. But every time he was offered a promotion or different position he declined. The low-tier streets were the ones that needed attention. He hadn't transferred from the corrupt department in Polyhex to Cybertron's capital only to hide in some fancy cubicle, working cases for rich mechs and patrolling the clean, safe upper-tier streets. He might as well go crawling back to Praxus if he wanted all of that. Plenty of mechs did, but he didn't.

Jazz didn't.

Track Down hadn't either, but that mech had been idealistic to a fault. Almost impressionable, though not stupid. Just... willing to be of service. To help try and make a difference where a difference needed to be made.

It's always the better mechs who are the ones to die. To die, or disappear to a fate unknown.

Smokescreen isn't going to be happy with him, Prowl knows. He can imagine the look his therapist is going to give him once the mech manages to drudge out all of the bitter self-hatred that's beginning to fester under Prowl's armor like a rust-infected wound. He's going to try and convince Prowl that there is no logical reason why he should blame himself for Track Down's death. He's going to try and convince Prowl that no, it shouldn't have been him instead, that's the survivor's guilt talking. He'll try and convince Prowl that losing two partners in three years isn't something he needs to feel guilty and awful about regardless how much or how little he could have done to prevent it.

It won't work, none of it will, but Prowl will pretend it does and Smokescreen will know he's full of slag and continue to rake in the ridiculous amount of shanix Iacon's law enforcement agency is doleing out in order for him to keep Prowl functional. Because Prowl's higher-ups still haven't given up on the idea of trapping him behind a desk somewhere in their investigative office, where he'll be more useful to mechs who already have all the help they need in life, and less so to those that need it most. Prowl knows those mechs will probably succeed with that plan, now that he has precious little ground to stand on to defend his work in the lower tiers or to justify chosing another good mech to work with him - and potentially die - down there. Even if he is allowed the opportunity to chose a new partner, he probably won't be able to bring himself to. He clearly can't keep the mechs he works with safe. He doesn't deserve another chance.

Prowl thinks of all of this - he thinks of everything, or so he's been accused - and the pain in his spark is a tangible thing because he knows it should have been him to disappear instead of Jazz.

Wishes it had been him to die instead of Track Down.

The memory of what happened to Track Down returns to Prowl that night. He is woken by his own flinch, one servo flinging up to protect his helm from a non-existent threat. He had seen Track Down's face twisted in agony, optics flaring bright with shock as he crumpled to the ground, hands clutching uselessly at the streams of energon pouring out of him. Prowl remembers his partner struggling to get up and failing, going still as Prowl is beaten like a dull blade in a forge.

He remembers rage. It's something he rarely feels, but that night he'd felt it boil in his fuel lines. The red mech that sliced Track Down open became an object in Prowl's mind. A piece of scrap destined for destruction. He remembers that cold thought clearly. Remembers the mech's helm exploding, a shot from a blaster turned up to its highest setting. Remembers that it fixed nothing, cured nothing, healed nothing to have killed that mech.

He remembers everything and wishes he didn't. For the next few nights, all he can see when he tries to sleep is Track Down's face. The mech is talking about something innocuous, perpetual smile bright as a high beam. Prowl never pays attention to what exactly he's saying in these dreams. He just looks at his kind, friendly partner and feels a sick sort of premonition that something horrible is going to happen. But he never opens his mouth to give a warning. He just stands there as energon suddenly gushes from Track Down's mouth and the mech collapses in a pool of livid pink. Prowl wants to help him but when he tries to move it's like wading through molten slag.

Too slow. Too late.

He requests - begs - that Tracer put him into stasis for the duration of his stay in the recovery ward. He would rather not be conscious when he doesn't have work to preoccupy himself with. But Tracer gives him the horrifying news that he isn't going to be allowed back to work for at least a month, if not longer, and even then he'll have to have scans done and complete several tests to ensure he's fit for duty. She says the processor and optic injuries he sustained need time to rest in order to recover, which means the high levels of data work he's used to, late-night shifts spent on reports and case files and even the daily hazards of his job could make recovery difficult or even impossible if he gets back into it too early. And no, he can't spend the month in stasis because recovery progress would slow to a crawl.

Prowl isn't capable of arguing his way around any of Tracer's decision-making and he's silent the rest of the day. A whole month without work. A whole month without distraction.

He's not sure how he's going to live with himself.

He gets a few days in to what to he sees as inequitable house arrest and he's even less certain that he'll be able to last a week, let alone a month or longer.

The first morning back home Prowl wakes up disoriented, forgetting that he's no longer in the recovery ward of his department's medical wing. His alarm is ringing and he doesn't have anything to get up for so he shuts the thing off, stows it in the drawer of the storage unit beside his bed and stares out the window at the starry dawn, wondering what to do with himself. He has no at-home routine, because he is never home. He's tired - his helm hurts and he didn't sleep well because images of his dead and missing partners permeated his every dream. But he can't stay in bed. Not when he's already spent an entire week lying around doing nothing.

He has to put something on his mental calendar other than survive because lately, that's a thing he's been losing enthusiasm for.

There are so many things Tracer said he can't do: he can't work, he can't go running, he can't train or go to the shooting range or do anything that might strain or jar his processor and left optical array. After pacing around his flat desperate to think of something productive to do, Prowl leaves the highrise where he's lived since he first moved to Iacon and cuts through the city to the highways on the outskirts. He doesn't often come out here. These wide empty roads are mainly for freightliners and other longhauler trucks and he's not a part of his department's highway trooper division.

It isn't mandatory for Iacon's enforcers to deactivate their decals and retract their light bars when they're off-duty, but Prowl does it now so he won't give any freightliners undue anxiety when he approaches them from behind. Then he sets his cruise control to ninety and just... drives. For hours. And it's addicting as any unproductive waste-of-time activity can be. He's never really had much of an excuse to go and do something so meaningless by himself before, but now it's all he has to do and he's going to drive until he's too tired to think.

That night Prowl stumbles through the door of his flat almost blind with exhaustion. He had driven until his tank nearly ran dry and then returned and climbed the stairs up all eleven levels of his highrise since the elevator was full of night-shift mechs. He's glad for the physical exertion. Maybe he will do it every day: waste time using the stairs whenever he goes out or comes in. It gives him something to do and there's never anyone else in the stairwell anyway.

He doesn't sleep well - again - and gets up early to head down into the filthy, familiar lower-tier districts that are his domain when he's on duty. Currently he's using a holographic projection to alter his coloring enough to go unrecognized, because he doesn't want Tracer finding out he came down here. If she somehow does, he'll just say he was wandering. He won't say he's looking, searching like he did for weeks on end almost three years ago, unwilling to accept that it's a less productive task than driving himself to death on the highways.

Unwilling to accept that Jazz isn't still alive somehow, somewhere. That his former partner might have been killed and thrown into one of the smelting pits at the nearby industrial district, just like what everyone else in the department assumed happened.

Telling Tracer that he had been wandering wouldn't be a lie though, even if it's not the entire truth. Prowl is directionless, lacking any leads, continuing on with a mere sliver of illogical, ridiculous hope. He feels more alone now than he ever had while working the streets of Polyhex, unappreciated for his efforts by his corrupt colleagues. He had put up with the inffered threats, put up with the covert harassment - he drew the line at the abuse - because he knew he was doing something that mattered there. Knew he was making a positive change even if it was only in small ways and only to a small number of mechs. But here, now, he's never felt so fragging useless in his life.

He goes home when dawn breaks the next morning and he's already tired of his silent empty living quarters, bored of them. But he doesn't like to watch holovids for entertainment, and music...

Jazz loved music. It always seemed like he wanted Prowl to love it, too. That mech was always talking about it, listening to it, moving to it. Prowl could appreciate certain melodys but never in the way Jazz did. Jazz felt music. Absorbed it like a sponge. He often sent Prowl playlists he had compiled of various genres, gave him data sticks he bought from street performers or bands, and Prowl still has them, and he can't bring himself to listen to them alone.

Jazz shared so much of himself with Prowl, his other coworkers, his friends. Prowl feels like he's never given anyone much of anything, and certainly nothing to Jazz that could make up for everything his partner had offered to him. Jazz shared his passions, hobbies, stories of his past to anyone willing to give him the time of day. Prowl has no passions save for his job, no real hobbies and he doesn't consider his past worth mentioning to anyone. It was bleak. Boring. Depressing, like him. Jazz's past was colorful and vibrant. Dynamic, like him. Prowl had spent many long nights on patrol listening to that mech's captivating accounts of his life.

The thought that a mech who gave so much of himself to others could possibly have given his spark to his dark and uncertain occupation isn't one that Prowl can easily contemplate. So he doesn't. Until he has solid proof he refuses to believe Jazz is dead.

Track Down, however. His memory now haunts Prowl like a perturbed ghost. His death was such a waste and Prowl knows the rest of his department sees it the same way. They think any of their mechs working Iacon's lower tiers is a waste - Prowl knows they do even though none of them ever say so out loud. They don't have to. It shows in how unwilling they are to invest resources into the improvement of those districts, even at the expense of their own enforcers' experience on the job. But despite that fact Prowl can't blame them for what happened to Track Down. He's far too busy blaming himself.

He endures another restless night, this one plagued with nightmares that are dark and disturbing. He can't recall them accurately once he's awake but he knows they filled him with a crushing sense of dread, guilt and sorrow. He stares up at the ceiling and tries not to think of how desperately he wants to occupy himself with a complex task. He has shelves full of cold case files and other miscellaneous datawork that would easily fill his days with all the distraction he could want. He's honestly shocked Tracer trusts that he won't work himself into a coma, now that he's left to his own devices.

He certainly doesn't trust himself.

Coincidentally, his therapist doesn't trust him either. Prowl had ignored a simple ping of inquiry from Smokescreen the first day he'd returned home, and the mech hadn't bothered him again until the day after, sending a message that was marginally more demanding of attention. Prowl ignored that one as well, because their next session is later this same week if they get back on schedule. Surely Smokescreen can wait. Prowl is fairly certain the uncharacteristic checking-in can't be counted for worry on the other Praxian's part - Smokescreen is simply an intuitive professional who knows his clients a little too well, and knows how to keep tabs on them. He's the chosen shrink for multiple enforcers in the Iacon precinct and is usually up to speed on any significant events that occur in their lives.

He probably thinks that Prowl isn't handling things well on his own and if so, he's right, but Prowl's not ready to talk about it yet. Especially not to someone capable of prying an emotional breakdown out of him with nothing but a verbal crowbar. There's something about Smokescreen that makes it difficult for Prowl to maintain a facade around him, and the part of Prowl that is ruled by pride and shame can't help but resent that mech for his ability to destroy the carefully designed mental infrastructure that allows Prowl to operate above all of the disorganized pitfalls in his mind. That mire of emotions that serves no purpose and yet persists. Smokescreen knows how to get him to trip over his own hazard tape and fall face first into that place he tries so hard to avoid, and he resents it.

A part of him also respects it but he's never going to inform Smokescreen of that. The mech probably already knows.

Giving up on attempting to sleep, Prowl relocates from his bedroom to what he thinks of as his "office corner" - really the only section of his living quarters where he's ever spent much time. He doesn't sit at his desk, even though he wants nothing more than to bury himself in work that is sure to antagonize his healing processor. He instead sits on one of the two chairs available in front of his desk and stares out the huge windows that take up the entire eastern wall. Sniping hazard had been his initial thought upon seeing them for the first time, and as he recalls that now, and lets his thoughts wander and eddy and spiral down to places he knows they shouldn't go, he wonders if hazard is really the right word for it.

Maybe justice would be better.

Sometimes it seems as though his therapist has the weird ability of being able to sense when one of his clients is thinking things that have been categorized as off-limits, because as Prowl is watching Cybertron's star rise and wondering why he should be allowed such a privilege in place of Track Down and potentially Jazz, the data pad on his desk buzzes like a perturbed zap hornet. Instantly the thought comes to mind that there is a work-related situation that requires his immediate attention and he accepts the video call without checking the number or pausing to think.

"I should have tried calling you earlier." Smokescreen's face pinches mildly as he stares at Prowl through the screen. "What on Cybertron have you been doing to yourself? Are you ill?"

Prowl sets the pad back down and steps away from the desk, hands proping themselves on his hips as he shutters his optics and sighs. He regrets picking up the call, because now that he has - now that Smokescreen knows for sure he's not doing alright - he's not going to be left alone. But he can't hang up on the mech because he's never done that before and that kind of silence would scream louder than he ever could.

"Prowl, are you there? Talk to me mech."

He sighs again, turns and picks up the pad. "I'm here. What do you want." The roughness of his voice reminds him that he's hardly spoken since he returned home. That he has no one to speak to. He hopes Smokescreen dismisses it as nothing more than a forgotten vocalizer reset. It's still early enough in the morning for that.

"I want you to be straight with me about how you're doing. Now is not the time to be evasive." Smokescreen has his I'm serious face on. "Not when you look like something a wild turbofox wouldn't drag back to its hole."

Prowl hasn't bothered to check his reflection since he's been home, but he doesn't doubt he looks terrible. "I'm tired. That's all."

"That's all." Smokescreen likes to repeat what Prowl says sometimes, and Prowl hates it because the mech always manages to say something different with the same words. This time it's, You slagging lier you think I'm stupid? "Why don't you sit down and be honest with me for once, okay?"

"I am tired." More tired than he can remember ever being. He wasn't sleeping all that great when he was in the recovery ward either, but at least there Tracer had allowed him light medication for it. She seemed adverse to allowing him free access to any sort of drug and hadn't allowed him to take anything home.

Prowl's not stupid. He knows she thinks she has her reasons. And currently he isn't all that certain those reasons are entirely void of validity.

"I know you are." Smokescreen shifts a little like he's settling in for a long conversation, even though Prowl is intent on making it short as possible. "I want you to tell me why. What have you been doing since you were discharged from medical? Besides ignoring my pings."

"I... " I've been in pain. I can't manage my own mind. I can't sleep thanks to nightmares. I hardly remember to refuel and when I do it's only so I can drive or wander aimlessly until I'm too tired to think. I feel like worst failure I've ever met and I could list all the reasons why for a solid hour. " ...Nothing. I haven't been doing anything."

"Nothing productive, you mean?"

" ...Yes."

"Hmm. So, I'll ask again. What have you been up to?"

"Distracting myself." It's honest, at least. He'd rather not go into the details since he knows what Smokescreen might say and he doesn't want to hear it.

"From what?"

"I'm fairly certain you know the answer to that."

Smokescreen vents softly and takes his gaze off of Prowl for a moment - probably to the window across from his desk where he's sitting now as if he and Prowl are in an actual meeting. There's an indiscernible shift from therapist to plain old Smokescreen when he says, "I was sorry to hear about Track Down. He was a good mech."

"Yes, he was."

"So are you."

Frag this mech. Honestly. Prowl isn't immature enough to say it to the mech's face but this isn't the first time he's wanted to.

"You can't stand to hear anyone insist on that, can you?"

He's not engaging in this argument. Neither of them are going to change each other's mind, but somehow Prowl always feels like he loses every battle he engages in with Smokescreen. He's almost proud of himself when the mech gives up and switches topics.

"Alright, fine. Tracer let me know you have at least a month of recovery time ahead of you, so let's deal with your schedule since you clearly you haven't come up with much of a plan for it yourself. Which is completely understandable, by the way. I know this will take some adjusting and I'd like to try and help make that easier for you."

"We can talk about that at our next session." Prowl sits back in his seat and stares out the window, data pad propped on his leg.

"I think we need to talk about it now." In Prowl's peripheral vision Smokescreen leans forward a little on the screen, doorwings canting. "I want to make sure there will be a next time. I don't want our next meeting to roll around and have you not show up because you've driven yourself into the ground."

Prowl glances down at the screen and wonders if Smokescreen is being metaphorical or thinking of what it looks like when a mech throws himself from a twelfth-story balcony. Wonders if his therapist's recent attempts to contact him weren't in fact motivated by worry.

"There will be a next time." He can only hope he sounds sincere enough to alleviate any potential concern.

"Good. Then we can catch up on how your new schedule is going. Because we are discussing it right now. May I make a suggestion?"

"You may." Prowl returns to staring out the window. He's really not open to suggestions, he would just rather not be the one talking right now. He knows Smokescreen is just going to bring up something related to "social activities", which is the absolute last thing Prowl wants to think about presently.

"I recommend you look into getting a mechanimal companion."

Prowl blinks, optical ridges furrowing. He's sure he didn't hear correctly but a quick playback proves him wrong. "I'm not sure I follow your logic. How would that accomplish anything?"

"Have you heard of mechanimal therapy?" Smokescreen pauses while Prowl shakes his helm. "It might sound elaborate but it's not. Simply caring and being responsible for another sentient being has been statistically proven to have a number of beneficial effects on our daily lives. Having a pet around during your recovery time would be an excellent way to create some routine and structure for your schedule, especially if you get a type that needs regular exercise. What do you think?"

Prowl must just be really, really tired, because he's not fully capable of taking the suggestion seriously. "I don't think I'm suited to own a mechanimal of any sort. I wouldn't know the first thing about taking care of one."

"Well if I know anything about you, which I do, it's that you research the hell out of every innocuous detail about whatever it is you're doing. You'll probably end up knowing more in a few days than most pet owners learn in a few years."

Prowl scoffs - but doesn't refute the accusation. "I still don't see how this could be anything other than a waste of time."

"You have more time to waste now than you know what to do with" Smokescreen points out.

"Don't remind me." Prowl grimaces at his fellow Praxian's little smirk. "What about when I go back to work? I'm never home when I'm working except to sleep." And sometimes not even then. "A pet would surely be impractical in the future, if not now."

"Perhaps you could foster from the local pound. Just until Tracer decides you're fit for duty."

Prowl gives Smokescreen a square look, which the mech promptly returns. "You're actually serious about this."

"Yes I am. I think it would be good for you." Smokescreen spreads his hands. "It'll keep you occupied and give you a schedule of sorts that has nothing to do with work. I would get something like a mechawolf or turbofox, since they like daily routine and exercise. Cybercats are a little more self-reliant, and I don't want you to even think about picking some blind old one who won't care if you come or go and just needs its fuel dish kept full."

Prowl is sure that if he had more energy to think, that's exactly where his mind would have gone. "Wouldn't something low-maintenence be a more logical start for someone who's never owned a pet before?"

"Yes, for most. But you need something that demands your time without being a load on your processor. And like I said, I'm sure you'll do adequate research. That's another thing you can occupy yourself with, though I'm sure Tracer would have you limit how long you spend on that."

Prowl lets the data pad lay flat on his leg and sighs. "You're talking like I've already agreed to this. Which I haven't."

"Do you have something better in mind?" Smokescreen waits until Prowl tilts the screen so he's in view again. "I know you're tired. I know that thinking about this must be tiring. But if you had any suggestions yourself I'm sure you would have refuted mine with them by now."

Prowl wishes his therapist didn't have to be right all the time. "I'm sure there must be a more practical and-or productive solution available."

"Yes, well. Most of them are more socially-oriented, and I didn't bring them up because I know you wouldn't agree to any of them. Is that an assumption I should disregard?"

" ...No. I will consider what we've already discussed." He doesn't have the energy to roll his optics at Smokescreen's triumphant little flicker of doorwings. "But I am not going to make any reckless decisions. If I can't find a reasonable foster situation I'm not going to press the matter."

"Excellent. I can't ask you to do more than that." Smokescreen nods. "We'll get back on schedule this week with our meetings, so you'll have to let me know how it goes. And I know you don't like to hear it, but take care of yourself. Seriously. The next time I see you I want to see an improvement."

Prowl ends the call and stares at the blank screen for a minute as he thinks about what he just agreed to. He looks up and around at his barren, silent flat, wondering what sort of mechanimal would possibly be content to call it a temporary home. What comes to mind is, in fact, a blind old cybercat that would spend the majority of its time asleep on its bed, not caring what its temporary owner might be doing or if he's even home.

A turbofox or mechawolf would be a significantly higher cost in the long run, too. Not that that would be an issue for Prowl - he makes decent shanix and hardly spends it on anything, ever. But he figures it's a good enough excuse just in case he does end up with a pet whose existence in his life won't result in any change to his pathetically empty schedule.

Than again... Smokescreen hadn't mentioned any other solutions that weren't somehow related to social activities, and with that in mind Prowl thinks there just might be a possibility he ends up in the temporary ownership of a turbofox or mechawolf after all.

He had better get started on that research.

Chapter Text

Jazz comes to his senses in an empty metal cell, a thick collar around his neck with prongs that scrape against protoform through gaps in his plating when he lifts his head. His audial suite comes online and he hears yowling barks from other mechawolves and turbofoxes. Chains rattling. Claws scratching on metal tiles. Jazz lunges to his paws and stumbles, fear lancing through him.

He's been in a place like this before.

Stained steel tables. Bright lights. Rough hands holding scary tools. These are the earliest memories he can recall clearly, though he knows they can't be his first. Because he was told by those mechs that he had been abandoned.

They locked him in a cell much like the one he finds himself in now. That's when they tell him, We'll find you a new home. A new life. He had been too scared to be hopeful back then, but if he'd managed it those hopes would have been dashed the day he went home with Axel.

He paces in his cell - plain metal tiles, smooth walls, barred door similar to his old cage - listens to the howls of his fellow mechanimals and wonders if he can escape. Return to the streets. It's always been difficult for him to think about escaping. It gives him a headache like his processor is allergic to the notion. But he couldn't stay with Axel, and he can't stay here. He'll probably end up being taken by another drunken mess of a mech and though the city streets are depressing, they're nowhere near as bad as living with someone that hates him.

He loses count of how many rounds he's done of his cell by the time two mechs walk up to his door, one green, one yellow. The green one is holding a coiled lead and something inside Jazz twists in uncomfortable anticipation of something negative. The barred door is unlocked and he cowers at the back of his cell, plating flared, audial fins pinned to his head. The mech with the lead pauses in his tracks.

"Unfriendly, ain't he."

"Street mutt. What do you expect? Want me to snag 'im for ya?" The yellow mech stands like a wedge between the partly-opened door and the wall, blocking any hope of escape.

"Nah, I think I got it." The green mech crouches, lead held out between him and Jazz like a shield, optics a little wide. Jazz wants to do something irresponsible, lash out and bite or scratch but his mind won't listen. It wants him to be good. Obedient. The green mech reaches out, clips the lead to his collar and Jazz feels a sub-sonic rumble in his vocalizer.

"Slag." The green mech stands and looks back. "What do I do?"

"You're fine. He'll follow." The yellow mech steps back and swings the door open. The bite of the prongs deepens and Jazz takes a reluctant step forward, then another, hind legs bent, still resisting. He doesn't know where they're taking him but all he can think of is Axel's narrow yellow optics, his leering smirk. His violence.

The two mechs drag him down a noisy hall lined with cells just like his own, full of mechawolves and turbofoxes and other mechanimals. They bark and hiss and growl and Jazz clamps his audial fins to his head. Sees signs on the barred doors, reads some of them in passing:

Jazz is pulled through another door and down another hall, and then into a room that reminds him of his earliest memories. Stained steel tables. Bright lights. Mechs with tools in their hands and claw-proof armor.

He panics.

Even as he's lunging against his collar, pulling free, darting away from hands reaching to grab, he wonders why he's so afraid. His earliest memories are not of pain or fear. There was simply a sense that something was horribly wrong. That he was someplace he shouldn't be. Jazz has never been able to figure out why he felt that way, in that room. But he's feeling it again now and all he knows is that he needs to escape.

The door to the hall is closed, trapping him in. He searches for a way out all the while trying to avoid the mechs who are attempting to restrain him. He is stiff and sore from lying on metal tile for who knows how long, and his limp is pronounced, throwing him off-balance. He stumbles over his dragging lead, trips on it. Knocks into tables and sends their contents clattering to the floor. Mechs are yelling at him, upset about the mess. They chase him and this only makes him move faster.

They give up after a while and Jazz pauses to rest. He stands in one corner half-hidden behind an overturned table, panting. His vents are wheezy. The mechs are venting audibly as well, hands on their hips and sour expressions on their faces.

"Look at this place" one of them complains as he looks around the room. "Fragging klutz."

"Get the stun gun" one of them says, and Jazz remembers getting shot by an enforcer in that alley. He doesn't want that to happen again. He doesn't want to be unconscious around these mechs. So he steps forward slowly toward the nearest one, and waits. Tries again when all he gets is a skeptical look. The mech approaches him just as slowly and reaches for the handle of his lead, picks it up. The other mechs scoff.

"What the hell just happened?" One of them throws his hands in the air, exasperated.

"I swear he understands what 'stun gun' means" says the one holding his lead. "You see the way he looked at us when you said it?" Jazz gives the mech a sideways glance. Of course he can understand. Just because he can't talk doesn't mean he can't comprehend.

He is led up a set of steps onto a table and made to lay down, straps secured around his limbs. He deeply regrets his cooperation when mechs approach with tools in their hands, but all they do is poke and prod and write things down on their little screens while two others clean up the mess Jazz made trying to escape.

They say he needs a bath - whatever that is - and drag him into a cell that has drains in the floor. One mech sprays him with cold liquid and he hates it - growls and struggles and trips over the hose and feels ashamed at their laughter.

They bring him back to his cell. Leave him there cold, wet, still dirty because he hadn't let them do a good job cleaning his plating. They put a sign on his door that he sees the next time he's brought out:

Life in the pound - this prison for unwanted mechanimals - is in some ways better than life on the city streets. There's two feeding times per day, a place to sleep undisturbed and a large outdoor run for the mechawolves to get exercise together on occasion. But despite all these positives Jazz doesn't feel better about his life. He's tense all the time and doesn't sleep well at night. There's no music around to listen to and he has nothing but his thoughts and worries to preoccupy himself with when he's alone in his cell.

Mechs who aren't pound staff come throughout the day, wandering up the aisle between the cells, peering through the bars at Jazz and his fellow inmates. They talk to the staff mechs, ask questions and Jazz watches their frame language, their expressions, listens to their tone of voice. He avoids optic contact with any of them and lays along the back wall of his cell, tail tucked, head on his paws. Don't look at me. It isn't that he doesn't want to find a good owner. It's that he doubts he will. Worries he'll end up with another mech like Axel, or someone who will eventually abandon him. Again.

Over the course of several days Jazz is mostly left alone by prospective buyers. Any interest they show at first glance is soon deflected by the description on the sign posted on Jazz's cell door. And if that doesn't do the trick, it's his size. Too big. Too expensive. Too much to handle.

He is taken out once for someone to get a better look at him, but it's by a staff mech Jazz doesn't like and for a shifty-looking couple he doesn't trust. The mech and femme both look like cybersnakes, shrewd and predatory, sizing him up like they think he might be useful to them for something. He doesn't trust that it could be for anything good so he stumbles along dragging his bad leg in an exaggerated limp, shying away from touch, bares his teeth and growls when the staff mech grabs at his collar in frustration.

"Thanks, we've seen enough" the mech says dryly, and the femme nods. "Think we'll pass on this one."

The staff mech isn't happy but Jazz feels a bit of triumph at his success. As much as he's not thriving at the pound, he'd rather live here than with bad owners.

It's a few days before someone else shows an interest in him, and again, it isn't a mech Jazz likes the look of. Green and gold, the mech saunters up the aisle like he owns the place, sharp green optics sweeping over the caged mechanimals like a laser. Jazz retreats to the back wall and curls in on himself on the floor when the mech stops in front of his cell. He knows for certain he dislikes him the second their optics meet. The mech stares at him a moment too long and Jazz growls, feeling threatened. The mech smirks.

"Didn't think I'd find anything remarkable in a place like this but look at this gem. Long-fins are rather rare, are they not?" The mech is speaking to a staff mech who followed him up the aisle, and his insufferably stuffy accent has Jazz pinning his audial fins to his head. He's probably one of those rich upper-tier dwellers - he looks out of place in this dingy, scruffy pound.

"Yeah, oh yeah. They're rare" the staff mech bumbles. The green and gold mech seems to make even other mechs nervous. "I've never seen one brought in off the streets before and I've worked here six years."

"Take him out. I want to look at him." Those piercing green optics never stray from Jazz's.

"Uh, sure, okay. He's not usually the most cooperative -"

"So drug him." The rich mech waves a dismissive hand. "Put a muzzle guard on him. Whatever you must do. Bad behavior is nothing but a whim of the mind and can always be cured."

"Right. I'll see what we've got." The staff mech scurries away and Jazz turns his head so he can't see the mech leering at him through the bars.

Two staff mechs return and one clips Jazz to a lead and holds his head still while the other pokes a needle between his neck plates into his protoform. Jazz is instantly destabilized, a numb sensation spreading to his limbs and his processor is muddled with thick fog. He struggles, scared, as the two mechs drag him out of his cell and down the hall to the door that leads to the outdoor run. His claws still aren't long enough to gain traction on the metal tiles and he falls two times before they manage to pull him outside.

"Aptly named, I see." Jazz knocks into one of the staff mechs as he shies away from that pompous, irritating voice.

"Yeah he has a bum leg. He can walk on it fine but it'll need surgery if you want to get rid of the limp." The mech tugs on the lead. "C'mon, Klutz. You didn't even get a full dose."

Full dose or not, Jazz feels like he can't vent or walk or think properly. But despite his fear and disorientation he is determined not to make a good impression on the rich mech. He balks, growls, refuses to listen, sits and makes the staff mechs yank him around the run. The rich mech asks for the lead and Jazz lies down and refuses to budge. For as much as he hadn't wanted to be sold to Axel he wants even less to end up in the ownership of this mech. He fully expects to be kicked for his obstinance and the mech looks at him like he wants nothing more than to put a good dent in his plating - he probably isn't used to anyone not listening to his every word and heeding his every order. But he seems to check himself because the staff mechs are present, and he hands back the lead with a haughty air.

"I'm sure this behavior could be corrected in due time, but I'd rather invest in something that would be more worth the trouble." He looks down at Jazz like he's looking at an oil stain on the ground and Jazz shrinks behind the legs of the staff mech who's holding his lead.

"Of course. Would you like to look at some of our other mechawolves?" The other staff lead the rich mech back inside and the other follows, taking Jazz back to his cell.

"That mech would have dished out a lot of shanix for you if you'd just behaved yourself." The lead is unclipped and Jazz sinks to the floor as the mech leaves his cell, slams the door. He's angry, speaking in a low tone. "You're a fragging waste of resources, is what you are. Getting worse every day." He stomps off muttering to himself, and while Jazz can't think straight he knows he should be worried about the mech's anger. He's not exactly sure why, he just knows it's not a good thing to be categorized as a "waste of resources".

He sleeps off the drug, but it leaves behind a lingering paranoia that he can't shake. Anyone and everyone who approaches him now is a potential threat. He cowers and growls and startles himself by snapping at a staff mech's hand. He doesn't want to be acting like this. He wants to be good and obedient but they drugged him and they might do it again and he might be taken by an awful, sneering mech who sees him as something to control and to show off, and he doesn't trust any of them anymore.

The third time he snaps at someone - he didn't mean to, he's never ment to - he gets a muzzle guard and a new sign for his cell door:

Staff give up on attempting to bring him out to exercise and play with other mechawolves - this is no real loss to Jazz because the few times he's been out with them they ignore him or actively avoid him, just like the wolves on the city streets. There are toys in his cell - someone thought he needed more "stimulation", whatever that means - but Jazz never had any idea what to do with them. He's seen other mechawolves bite and toss and play with their toys but it never held much interest for him before, and now that he's muzzled most of the time they're useless beyond being something colorful to look at.

The new sign on his door is an extremely effective deterrent for prospective buyers. Jazz is barely given a second glance by anyone nymore. And while a part of him is relieved that there is less of a chance that a bad mech will want to take him home, the rest of him is sad and he doesn't even know why.

He is slumped in a corner of his cell one day, staring across the tiles at his half-empty fuel dish when a mech stops outside his barred door, reads the signs on his cage and doesn't immediately walk away. Jazz shifts his head to glance up at him, wary. The mech is green, with the boxy frame of someone who favors rougher roads than pristine city avenues. His face is open, friendly. "Awe, hey big guy." Even his voice sounds kind. "How long has he been here?"

A staff mech comes into view. "Almost two weeks by now, I think. Give or take a few days."

"He's not friendly at all, or... ?"

"Nope. We got the muzzle on him since he's tried to bite a few times."

"Ah. That's too bad. Hard to find a long-fin that isn't overpriced." The green mech chuckles a little. "Not that that would be an issue for Mirage but my budget is a little smaller and I couldn't get him a gift with his own shanix."

"Are you set on a mechawolf or are you open to considering a turbofox?" The staff mech moves away and the green mech follows after giving Jazz one last glance. "You mentioned your friend lives in the Towers right? We have Chink here, a silver turbofox. I heard they're extremely popular with Tower mechs and... "

Jazz listens to the conversation idly, feeling a growing sense of regret. The green mech sounds nice. He sounds like someone who would appreciate a loyal companion. His rich friend sounds like he would be a decent owner as well, and for the first time Jazz wishes he could have an opportunity to make a good impression on someone.

Chink is chosen for adoption after a lengthy discussion and the green mech leaves, and Jazz gets the sense that his own future is going to be very bleak. Empty. He's always carried some sort of hope, some sort of expectation of something better and he never realized that until now, when he feels it slipping away.

But that emptiness is nothing compared to what he feels when he hears the conversation of the mechs who are in charge of evening feeding that night. One slides Jazz's dish through the bars - his muzzle allows him to drink, though it makes a mess - and the two mechs stand on the other side of his door for a minute, talking.

"He's not gonna get adopted" one of them says in a low voice. "He's got good conformation and nice coloring but he's just so..."

"Unfriendly."

"Yeah. Must of been a stray his whole life."

"I don't know. Looks like he was abused at some point. Mechawolves don't just get like -" the mech waves a hand at Jazz. "- That."

"He's been getting worse since he's been here though" the other points out.

"Mmhm. And I can't see him getting better."

"Anyone said anything about a euthenization date?"

"Not that I know of." One of the mechs turns away and the other follows. "Think we should give it a few more days at least. Could get good money off him if we find someone interested in rehabbing a long-fin."

"That'd be pretty much his only chance."

The mechs move on, fuel dishes rattling on the wheeled rack. Jazz somehow knows what the word euthanasia means even though he's never heard it before. It means death. End. No more chances. And as he lies awake and stares at nothing and thinks of everything he's been through and how none of it has ever been anything he's wanted, it feels like something beneath his chest plating is going to break.

Chapter Text

Jazz can't refuel, and he can't sleep. He paces his call all night, troubled and sick to the tank. Until now he'd thought that if he wasn't chosen by anyone then he could stay here in the pound, locked up and relatively safe.

He feels now a desperation to find someone - anyone - willing to consider buying him, but knows that warning sign on his door is going to make that impossible. He knows this because he's been ignored since it got put up. Knows this because a femme walks by, holding the hand of a youngling, and the little mech spots Jazz sitting by the bars and tries to reach out to pet him but the femme takes one look at that sign and pulls him away. "Don't touch, sweetie. That one's dangerous."

Jazz isn't dangerous, but he's gone and ruined his chances of being seen as anything else. He ruined it because he's scared. Because it's so hard to trust mechs who might drug him and sell him to an awful owner. He ruined it and it's his fault, and he whines and forces his tail to wag at anyone who will give him a split-second glance, desperate to fix his mistake.

He doesn't want to die.

The pound staff are wary of him. They don't trust the change they see in him and they don't give him a chance to show them that it's real. That he won't snap or growl again. He'll be good. He won't be obstinate on the lead. He knows his only chance is making a good impression on someone willing to doubt that warning sign on his door, because the staff aren't going to take it down on a whim.

There are two mechs that come that evening, waving off assistance from staff as they move slowly up the aisle, muttering to each other in low tones. They stop and look only at mechawolves and they seem interested, focused, taking their time. Jazz watches them, muzzle guard pressed to the bars. His tail twitches when they stop in front of his cell.

"Hey, check this one out. He's a big one."

The other mech taps the warning sign and grins at the other. "He knows how to be mean, too."

"Kinda lightweight though. That grey one looked tougher."

"Nothin' a little training wouldn't fix." The mech drops his tone. "And mods. Bet Swindle has some good gear we could get our hands on."

"Yeah. Look at those claws." Jazz forgot he had them extended. "All chopped up. Maybe we could get him some blades."

"Hell yeah. Let's ask about him."

The mechs walk away, and though Jazz wants to feel hopeful he can't. Those mechs seem interested in him but there's something off about them. Something dark that Jazz doesn't like.

A staff mech comes and it takes every ounce of self-control Jazz has not to move away when his collar is reached for. He stands when the lead is clipped and hesitates for a brief moment, but walks when the staff mech moves, keeps up the pace and doesn't pull back. He doesn't like how the two strangers follow behind, the way they're looking at him and muttering about him. But he's in no position to be picky now.

He walks around the outdoor run carefully, head and tail down, sitting when he's told. He's so tense his plating rattles whenever he's still. The staff mech compliments his obedience and takes him back over to the two mechs, who are watching with folded arms.

"So what's with the muzzle?" one of them asks. "Thought he'd be more aggressive." He sounds disappointed.

"Honestly, I've never seen him like this. He's usually a hassle and a half." The staff mech looks down at Jazz. "His optics look dim so he might be under-fueled right now. He hasn't been eating well."

"Eh. Supplements could deal with that. Can we walk him around?" One of the mechs reaches out a hand.

"Yeah, sure." The lead handle is transferred. "I'll take him from you if he starts acting up."

Jazz tucks his tail as the two mechs' fields press against his own - they're dark and twisted, with an undercurrent of something violent. They talk in quiet tones as they walk and Jazz can tell it's because they don't want to be overheard.

"Look at that limp. They didn't call him Klutz for no reason. Probably got beat in a street fight. I say he's a waste of shanix."

"He doesn't have claw marks, that's some other kind of injury. And when have you seen a bigger wolf? I'll bet we could find someone to tweak his programming. Make him a killer."

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"He's a lightweight. Long legs and long fins, too. Those'll need modification."

"I think he's worth a bit of investment. Doesn't look that old."

"We can say we'll consider him, but let's keep looking. Altihex has a big pound. If we don't find anything there we can come back for this guy."

"Deal."

Jazz is walked back to the staff and handed over as the two mechs say they'll be back in a day or two and make their decision about Klutz then. The staff agrees, says they won't find a better price for a long-fin anywhere else, and brings Jazz back to his cell. The mech tries to pet Jazz and tell him that he was good, that he might finally be going to a new home, but he pulls away once he's free and goes to lay down with his face to the wall. He wishes he hadn't been good. He wishes those two mechs had decided they didn't want him.

Modifications.

Tweak his programming.

Make him a killer.

Those mechs don't want him as a companion. They want to make shanix off him. Want to see him fight and kill and get hurt. Jazz wishes more than ever that he could have made a good impression with that nice-looking green mech who had adopted Chink, but it's far too late for that now.

At feeding time he can hardly force himself to drink a third of what's in his fuel dish, and though he's exhausted he still can't sleep. He dozes off and on, always waking with a jerk, paws twitching with the urge to run, escape, but there is nowhere for him to run to. He lies on his side and watches the sky slowly brighten through the tiny skylight above his cell, and wishes he could hear his music again.

At least one more time.

Jazz doesn't move when the lights come on and the other mechanimals begin to make a fuss about morning feeding time. He doesn't move when his dish is swapped for a new one and staff remark on the fact that he hasn't refueled much. He doesn't move when a femme walks by his cage, curious optics drifting over him and the new sign on his door:

The warning sign was taken down and his muzzle guard was removed this morning, but Jazz has lost the will to keep trying. Too many horrible mechs show an interest in him - besides that green one he hasn't liked anyone who has inquired about him. So he remains sequestered at the back of his cell, drifting in and out of fitful recharge, anxiety building like a sick thunder cloud as he anticipates those two mechs coming back to take him someplace he doesn't want to go and force him to do things he doesn't want to do. He's not a fighter. Not a killer. He doesn't want to hurt anyone, or be hurt.

Is it a fate better or worse than a quiet death? Jazz doesn't know. He just knows he doesn't want either of those things.

He drifts off and is woken by the creak and slam of the door at the end of the hall, several mechawolves barking as they always do when someone new walks in. Jazz hears the voice of a staff mech, loud and explanatory. Whoever he's talking to can't be heard over the racket and it sounds like he's shouting to himself. Jazz tunes him out and shutters his optics again, wanting to return to his dream. It's that dream he has of being a mech. Living a better life. Having friends and that... thing that is important to him. That black and white and red something or someone that makes him wish more than anything that he didn't have to be a mechawolf. That he could be a mech and have what he has in this dream and maybe if he could just stay in this dream, life would be ok no matter what is happening to his mechawolf frame.

" ...And this here is Comet... " The staff mech's voice is outside of Jazz's cell and he opens his optics part-way. Then snaps them fully open, head jerking up off his paws. "He's old, really easy-going. I know you said you're looking for one that would appreciate regular exercise, right?"

"That would be ideal, yes." Black and white doorwings quiver with something unspoken and Jazz blinks. Stares. "I'm not opposed to considering other options though."

"Excellent. We have Rim Runner over here... " The staff heads for a cell down the hall and the other mech turns to follow, but pauses when his gaze lands on Jazz. He approaches the barred door and Jazz is on his paws before he knows what he's doing because this mech is black and white and red and Jazz has seen him before.

He's that enforcer. From the alley. His decals are missing but Jazz knows it's him and at the same time, he wonders if his dream is clashing with reality.

The mech crouches down as Jazz stops in front of the bars, and gives him a look of assessment. His optical ridges are low-set but any intensity that they contribute to his gaze is subdued by the sorrow wavering in the blue lights beneath them. He holds up a hand, palm down, digits loosely curled. He's not reaching to touch, just offering Jazz a read on his field, and the careful way he moves emboldens Jazz to push his muzzle close to enough to the bars to sense it. Compassion and uncertainty float over a mire of exhaustion and pain, and there is a darkness there, one that might have made Jazz wary if it weren't for the threads running through it of something so familiar it feels like brushing against a tangible memory.

Who is this mech? Jazz knows him somehow. It's almost like he remembers him, from somewhere before that night in the alley, but then it must have been from a time before his memories begin. The enforcer looks up at the staff mech who's watching silently and asks, "Why did you skip this one?"

"Klutz is one of our issue wolves." The staff shrugs. "He's unpredictable and uncooperative most of the time. I was told he was good on the lead the other day, and as you can see he's being considered now. But he was wearing a muzzle guard for a while since he started snapping at us. Wouldn't let us do much with him. I didn't figure you'd want to deal with all that as a first-time owner."

Jazz nudges the bars and whines softly, tail swaying. He wishes he could speak and say he would be easy to manage. That his behavior has changed. He wants a chance to get to know this mech and figure out why he seems familiar. The enforcer pulls his hand back out of reach. "He bites?"

"He's come close, but never actually bit anyone that I know of." The staff's optics rove between Jazz and the winged mech. "I have to say, I've never seen him this interested in anyone. He's usually upset whenever anyone goes in his kennel or gets near him."

The enforcer glances up at the sign on the door. "He must have got along with whoever is considering him for adoption."

Jazz flattens his audial fins to his head in disagreement. He's tempted to growl, but doesn't want to give the enforcer a bad impression. The staff mech makes a face and pulls his shoulders up a little, optics skittering to someplace on the other side of the aisle. "I... don't know. I wasn't there."

The enforcer's doorwings flick back as he stands. "I suppose I will keep looking. I'm sure whoever is considering him is more experienced and better equipped to handle him."

Jazz scrapes the bars with his claws like the pathetic, desperate thing that he is, and the staff gives him a strange look before spreading his hands in an indecipherable gesture. "If you would like to take a look at Klutz outside, you're more than welcome to. Like I said, I've never seen him act like this around anyone. And from what I've heard, I'd rather give him a chance with someone else before those other mechs come back."

"Why is that?" The enforcer is looking down at Jazz again and his gaze is a little distant, like he's not fully engaged with what the staff mech is saying. He absently reaches a hand back toward the bars and Jazz almost feels bold enough to poke his muzzle through and touch it, but not quite. He leaves an inch or two of space between and the enforcer doesn't close the gap.

"I don't know for sure and maybe it's just gossip," the staff mech says. "But I guess someone overheard them talking about mechawolf sizes, weights, mods and stuff like that. Which all sounds like pit fighter stuff to me."

There's a flash of disturbance in the enforcer's field and Jazz jerks his head back, wary of violence. The mech's distant expression is suddenly sharp. "Pit fighting is illegal."

The staff mech frowns. "I know that. I -"

"So is aiding and abetting it."

"What are you, a cop?" The staff mech folds his arms again and the enforcer opens his mouth, shuts it, remains silent. "Like I said, it's probably just gossip. We don't sell to anyone we know for sure is a ring runner."

"Surely you can refuse to sell if you suspect the buyer of criminal intentions."

"Well yeah, but there's really no grounds for suspicion here. Just speculation." The staff mech flops a hand at Jazz. "We're selling Klutz to whoever wants him because otherwise he's just going on the euthanasia list."

The enforcer doesn't have an immediate reply to that, and Jazz let's a soft whine escape in the silence. Take me! Don't let those other mechs come get me. Don't let me die. I saved your life, won't you save mine? He presses his muzzle to the bars again and shifts on his front paws. The enforcer meets his gaze, optics squinted. He sighs like he's disappointed with something. "If you don't mind, I would like to see how he is on the lead."

"Certainly. I'll be right back." The staff mech walks off and Jazz's audial fins perk a little on their own accord. The enforcer folds his arms and looks down at Jazz, then the floor. His doorwings twitch. This mech thinks a lot, Jazz can tell. It's a little intimidating. Not in a way that inspires fear, but one that inspires dread of failure. Jazz wants to make a good impression on this mech but he's not entirely certain he's going to be able to. He wishes he knew what that uncertainty in the mech's field is about; if it is about him, or something else.

The staff returns with a lead and Jazz sits perfectly still while it's clipped into place. Follows the mech with his head and tail down, attempts to disguise his limp. Hopes the enforcer walking silently behind them is deciding that Jazz is clearly no trouble at all.

He's tired, hungry, anxious, but he does everything he's told as the staff leads him around the outdoor run. Sit, stand, walk, turn. He's aware of the staff watching him with wary optics, feels the hand tight on the lead, but his gaze and audial fins keep straying to the black and white mech standing by the entrance, watching with a calculating stare that seems to intimidate the staff mech as much as it intimidates Jazz.

"Perhaps I am under-informed," the enforcer says as Jazz is walked back toward him, and his tone isn't condescending, just inquisitive. "But he seems to be reasonably well-trained."

"I have no idea what's got into him." The staff mech stops, looking down at Jazz with a strange expression. "If you'd seen him several days ago you wouldn't believe your optics. It's like he's a different wolf." The mech holds out the lead handle. "Would you like to try walking with him?"

Jazz steps forward, hesitant to hope, and the enforcer accepts the lead. He doesn't hold it short and tight like the staff mechs do - like Axel did. Instead he leaves slack between him and Jazz and waits for Jazz to fall in step with him so there isn't any pressure on the collar.

If anything could make Jazz more certain he wants a chance with the mech, it's this.

Despite his tire, hunger, anxiety, he doesn't have to pretend to be alert anymore. His attention is fully on the enforcer and he matches his every step, pace, movement like its his purpose. He stops instantly when the mech pauses and looks up, waiting. The enforcer looks down and Jazz sits without being asked. He's nearly trembling from sheer nerves and so anxious he let's out a soft whine. See look, I can be good. I'm no trouble.

He can't tell what the enforcer is thinking, but he knows he's thinking something. Sees it in those sad optics, feels it in his field. He sits, waits. The mech's gaze shifts and his optical ridges furrow; he reaches a hand out to brush careful digits over Jazz's collar. Jazz doesn't flinch - not quite. Most of him expects his collar to be tugged on, for the prongs to dig into his scarred protoform, but he isn't entirely shocked when the mech withdraws his hand without inflicting pain. His movements are too slow, too careful. His field isn't writhing with maliciousness, though there is a thread of anger there, sparking like a frayed wire.

"When I get back to work" the mech mutters, and maybe it's to himself, or to Jazz, or both, "This place is going on my list."

Jazz doesn't understand the words, but he trusts that the anger he sees in the cant of those doorwings isn't on account of him and isn't going to result in violence. He stands when the enforcer shifts and moves with him like a shadow as he walks back to the staff mech.

"That's... crazy." The staff mech stares at Jazz with a frown that almost looks alarmed, then at the enforcer with some suspicion. "I don't know that I believe you've never worked with mechawolves before."

"I haven't. I've done some moderately extensive research recently, but I can't say I really know what I'm doing here" the enforcer admits. He stops but doesn't try to hand the lead back, so Jazz sits by his side. "He's exceptionally easy to handle."

"That's never been the case before." The staff mech shrugs helplessly. "I mean, he was evidently behaved the other day when those other mechs were here, so maybe he just needed time to settle in. But still. Watching Klutz with you, you'd think he's military trained or something. And hey, you two even kind of match. Looks good." The staff mech is pandering now, seizing an opportunity and Jazz doesn't mind. In fact he very much hopes it works.

"He certainly does seem to have training. And he is obviously quite intelligent." The enforcer gives Jazz that thoughtful look again, but this time it's vaguely apprehensive, doubtful. "Do you think he would have a difficult time readjusting to a new place? If he doesn't settle well I wouldn't want to impose a foster situation on him."

Jazz doesn't know what a "foster situation" is, but if it has anything to do with this mech taking him home rather than those two other mechs, he's ok with it. He dares to nudge the enforcer's leg with his olfactory sensor, waving his tail a little when the mech glances down at him. He almost expects to be knocked on the head for his audacity but the enforcer just looks at him with an unreadable expression. The staff mech chuckles a little. "I swear it's like Klutz can understand us sometimes. He seems to like you, so why not give it a shot?"

Jazz stares up at the enforcer with pleading optics and the doubt in the mech's field retreats - but only a little. "Only if you think he would be alright with that. And if I'm not somehow ruining his chances of going to a better home."

"Oh please. You kidding?" The staff mech scoffs. "Hell, go ahead and adopt him if you want. Never seen him behave like this with anyone else. You got some special kind of way with him. And if you don't take him those other mechs probably will. Whether or not they're ring leaders they weren't half as good with him as you are."

Jazz feels a soft gust from the enforcer's vents as the mech shifts, holding the lead handle out to the staff. "I suppose a trial wouldn't hurt. If a week goes well I'll foster him for a month at least."

"Sounds good. Let me get him put back and we can get you started on all the necessary datawork. It'll probably take a day or so, but since you're confirming that you'll take him now, I'll remove his status of availability off our network and contact the other prospective buyers."

Jazz is taken back to his cell, and after the two mechs walk away he preoccupies himself with drinking the fuel in his dish. He's been hungry for a while, but until now he hasn't felt like he wouldn't purge whatever he swallows. That sick feeling is going away and in it's place Jazz feels a semblance of hope returning.

For the first time that he can remember he finally has something to look forward to that's more than a hazy dream or sorrow-induced wish.