Second Chapter Of Virgin Widow!

Second Chapter of Virgin Widow! 

Summery: Prowl's and Jazz's families arrange their bonding for business reasons. Prowl works hard to protect the people of his city, but when he goes home he is at the mercy of his family.  Jazz was born in space and is ostracized because of his frame type and appearance.   

Excerpt:

“Captain, are you okay?”

Strongarm again.  He half missed his previous sergeant, Puller, who had the intelligence of an energon goodie and had been quickly promoted above Prowl.

“I have been better,” he said, knowing the triteness would only annoy her.  Sure enough he heard a huff behind him and Strongarm came up beside him.  She knelt next to his chair and waited.

“It was a difficult evening, Strongarm,” he finally said, quietly.  “I am just tired.”

“Is your bonded unkind, sir?”  Prowl turned.  She was half again as tall as he was, even kneeling she could meet his optics.  She looked concerned – actually concerned.

“No.  I’ll probably never meet them.  It was by proxy.  My family is just difficult.”  He had never explained what he meant, but he was certain most of the station had guessed by now.  He’d returned from visits enough times with something bandaged or dented.

But the Praxian Shipping Empire funded the entire Enforcers Corps – no one was going to say anything.

Friends to Lovers

Oh slag Oh slag ohslagohslagohslageohslag!

Where could he go? What could he do?  

No.  Stop. Think and plan.  You are the Special Ops Helm.  You do not panic.

Jazz onlined his optics and caught sight of Prowl, still asleep on one of the the Rec room benches, one arm tucked under his helm, the other tucked up against his bumper.

Okay.  You panic a little.

0-0-0

It would be fine. Everything would be fine.  This could and would be dealt with in the same way all unexpected things were, with careful planning and tactical precision.

You have the most advanced tactical computer at your disposal. You are fully capable of using it to figure this out.

Prowl vented deeply and looked up at Blaster’s impromptu stage.  Jazz spun around, the microphone in his servo mostly a prop, and caught Prowl’s optic.  He winked.

Perhaps, now would be a good time to seek more experienced insights.

0-0-0

“Ratchet! I need some major talkin’ down!  I think I’m losin’ it!”

0-0-0

“Optimus, if you have a moment, I would like to discuss something urgent.  I believe I am experiencing a full processor error.”

0-0-0

AU August Fic 9

Coffee Shop

 A tall, dark, handsome mech walked into his shop late one night.

 Well, to be fair, he walked into the door and bounced off.  Then he smacked his helm on the menu board hanging over the self-serve counter.  But      eventually    he made it in.

 He shuffled up to the register and stared at Jazz with fuzzy, static filled optics.

 “What’ll you have?” Jazz said, quiet and gentle ‘cause the poor thing probably had a massive helmache.

 “Straight energon, one turbo shot, and your report on the Antigen case, that’ll be all Wheellock.”

 Jazz blinked.  The mech blinked.

 “I can do the energon, but I’m afraid I’m still writing that report, Sergeant.”

 “Captain,” the mech correctly absentmindedly, staring at Jazz.  “Did I - did I order energon?”

 Jazz nodded.  “Yep, but what I think you really need is recharge.”  The mech frowned.

 “I don’t have time for that.  I have to finish the Sparse Case and call Superintendent Bribery about the new hires.”

 “Do ya mean Superintendent Brakeline?”  Jazz kept his face very calm.  He’d been a bartender before he’d scraped up enough for his own energon cafe.  He’d heard everything.

 Still funny, though.

 “Yes, her.”  The Captain was starting to tilt slightly to one side.

 “Mech, I don’t think ya wanna be callin’ any important bots t’night.  Not until ya’ve got some recharge and two turbo shots.  Who can I call for ya?”

 The Captain just stared at him, still tilting slightly.  Jazz leaned across the counter and gently titled him back.

 “You want to call the Superintendent?” he asked, brow furrowed. “She’s not very nice.  I won’t let her talk to any of my sergeants after she made Chase cry.  I’ll call her for you, if you want.”

 “Actually I need to call Sergent Chase first.  Do you remember his comm code?”  The Captain recited it automatically.  Some skills transferred quite well from a bar to a cafe apparently.

 “Thanks.”

 :Hello hello!  Is this Sergeant Chase?:

 :This is Chase, who is this?:

 :Name’s Jazz.  Think I got one a’ ya Captains here tryin’ ta order energon with only half his processor online.:

 :Oh thank Primus you found him!  He was supposed to go home, but he keeps tricking the night officers into thinking he’s just coming on shift- where are you?  I’ll be right there.:

 Jazz pinged him his cafe’s address, but he felt bad for the guy.

 :Ya sound a little frazzled ya self.  If ya tell me where he lives, I’ll walk him there myself.  It’s no trouble.:

 There was a pause.

 :I’m afraid that is against policy.  I’ll be there in twenty-five minutes.  If you could make sure Captain Prowl stays there -:

 :I am not staying anywhere.:

 Jazz jumped.  Then snorted at the grumpy look on ‘Captain Prowl’s’ face.

 :Captain!: Sergeant Chase wailed.  :You’re not supposed to hack comms, remember?:

 :No.  I remember nothing of the sort.  I’m not staying here either.  I can take myself home.:

 :No you can’t.: Jazz and Chase said at the same time.  Jazz reached out and nudged Prowl upright again.

 “Mech,” Jazz said out loud, “Prowl, let me walk ya home.  It can’t be far.”

 Prowl frowned.

 “It’s that or you wait for your sergeant to come and walk you home,” he wheedled.  

 :Sergeant Chase, this mech is offering to walk me home.  This is a compromise.:

 :No, no no no, Prowl, we took a training on this!  Prowl -!:

 Prowl ended the comm and pushed himself away from the counter where he’d been slumping.

 :Sorry, mech,: Jazz told Chase.  :I’ll get him home and he’ll comm you there, alright?  Promise I’m not a serial killer.:

 :Oh, well if you      promise…    :  Chase was not happy about the situation, but he was 25 minutes away.  Jazz pinged him his ID code and ended the comm too.

 “Let’s go, Captain.  How far is your place?”

 “It is…that way.”  He pointed out the door.  “My address is…517 Carbon - no, no, that’s the station.  I live at 43 Whistle Street, 48th apartment.”

 “Awesome.”  Jazz slid over the counter and linked arms with Prowl.  “That’s not far.”  He steered him around the sign and through the open door without incident.

 “Lovely night,” Jazz said as they walked.  Prowl was mostly upright, only depending on Jazz for balance and directions.

 “Yes.  The stars are very bright without the clouds.”  Jazz looked up.  He was right.

 “Always loved the stars, myself.  Like music in the sky, little quarter notes scattering over it all.”  Ah, well, he was walking along a very quaint residential street with a cute mech on his arm, he could be a little sentimental.

 “They’ve always been guardians to me,” Prowl said, optics fixed on them.  Jazz navigated him around a pole.  “They watch from afar, making sure the planets have light even when it is dark.”

 He wasn’t the only one feeling poetic, apparently.  They walked in silence and then -

 “I want to be a star,” Prowl said.  “I want to give everyone the safety of a little light.”  He sounded so slagging sad.  A good enforcer, who would’ve thought.

 They arrived at his apartment building and Jazz was sad to see the walk ending.

 “This you, mech?” he asked, shaking him a little.  Prowl looked up.

 “This is my habsuite, yes.  Floor 48.”  He took an uneven step forwards and then turned around to face him again.  He put his servos on Jazz’s shoulders.

 “Thank you for walking me home.  I had a lovely time.”  Prowl leaned in and kissed Jazz sweetly.  “Comm me when you have another free evening.  Good night.”

 Prowl took five very unsteady steps and smacked into the door frame.  He cursed and put his servo on the pad and the door slid open.

 “Good night!” he called again, stumbling inside.

 Jazz waited on the sidewalk, staring up until he saw the lights on floor 48 come on.  He brushed his fingers over his lips.

AU August Fic 2

Artist’s Muse

The roof was slick and cold from the earlier frost.  Jazz had to watch his balance, even while using his magnets.  He slipped down into the wide gutter beneath his window and edged along it until he came to the farthest corner.  Beneath him, three hundred stories down, he could see bots buzzing home after a late evening.  He gazed at them, transfixed as he pulled his lyre from his subspace.

It was a thing of beauty.  Jazz ran his servo over the curve of the arm with its carved swirling details. Its origin was ugly and painful, but Jazz was helplessly in love with it anyway.  The artist who had created it, the musician who had played it before him…they were innocent.  This was a Strand lyre - he’d only ever made twelve of them - and it was an honor and a pleasure to play it.

His employer had four.  The other three were still pinned to the wall in the entryway like fragile dioflies, lighting up as the passing headlights shone through the window.

Across the road the balcony doors opened.  The warm yellow light sparkled differently through the moisture heavy air.  The doors closed and Jazz watched two servos appear on the railing, still heavily bandaged.

Jazz lifted the lyre and began to play.

The mech had been badly hurt.  Each night he slowly shuffled to the edge of the balcony as if he was crossing the Polyhex Plains.  Jazz tried not to imagine what injuries the bandages hid.  The only part they’d fully repaired had been his doorwings, shiny and new, glinting in the light.  Jazz had looked him up after the fourth night he’d watched him stumble out onto the balcony. 

Officer Prowl, on loan from Praxus.  He’d run back into a flaming shuttle again and again, according to the reports - a shuttle shot down on accident by Polyhex’s own turret guns.  Ha, ‘accident.’  Everyone knew who controlled those turrets and it wasn’t Polyhex.

The first night Jazz had come out onto the roof, it had been just to watch the cars.  He’d laid down to watch them, pretending it was the icy cold wind making his spark and frame ache.  It was only recently that he’d been brave enough to bring his lyre for company.  He was content at first just to feel the warmth of it in his subspace.  Then he’d pulled it out to cradle the beautiful instrument in his lap.  Then the call of the music had been too strong and he’d let the first haunting notes spiral out of his spark and into the world.

He kept returning.  Somehow, playing to the black sky and the echoing canyon of the skyscrapers had drained some of the poison.  It no longer hurt to look at the bots below.

He’d known he’d made a mistake minutes after he’d signed the contract.  He’d been hungry and tired, pushed past his limits.  He’d known that the ‘live-in musician’ contract was a sham.  Just like the turrets, Jazz only appeared to be in control.  Starvation for freedom, fuel for imprisonment.  He was never going to win.

Here at least, in the dark, with his silent audience, Jazz made the air dance on his command.  

He thought about the bots below, driving home to loved ones and the notes lifted up into happy, rose-red bubbles.

He thought about his audience’s injuries and the tempo slowed, the sounds deepening with sorrow and grief.

He thought about the will it must have taken to dive back into the flames, even as his paint burned, over and over again.  The notes came faster, overlaying each other in a messy melody.

He imagined his muse whole and healthy again.  He coaxed sweetened sounds from between his fingers, sending each note from the tip of his fingers out across the divide to stroke - gently! so gently - over his muse’s powerful, ravaged frame.

Across from him, the mech turned towards the music, unmoving, but clearly listening.  The shadows of his face made him look like carved crystal.  Those servos, strong and good, on the balcony edge…Jazz imagined them on his shoulders, stroking down his back.  He imagined taking them in his own and curling around them protectively.  The gentle twitching of his doorwing in the night, like an unknowing conductor, set Jazz’s spark aflame with want.  He couldn’t stop himself.

He sang.

The notes turned silky and smooth, like melted gold in his mouth as he did.  Not words, just notes and hums that twirled around the sound of his lyre in the night.  He poured everything into his voice - admiration, longing, desolation, joy, fragile hope - until his spark was empty and the space between the two of them was full.

The echos bounced back for an eternity before it was silent.  He would need to go in before anyone noticed he was missing.  Jazz took one more long look at his muse.

“Primus, mech, you’re beautiful,” he whispered to himself, setting his lyre down.  The mech across the road seemed to be looking right at him, if it weren’t for the bandages across his optics.  “Wish I could tell ya that.”

It made his servos ache, but he put his lyre away and crawled back towards the window.  He unlatched it and froze.

His…patron was standing there.  

“Sir -”

He was seized and pulled through.  As he was slammed into the wall, Jazz’s vision went white.

0-0-0

Prowl titled his helm - uselessly, his audio functions were still offline - and ‘listened’ harder.

“What do you think you were doing?  Out there with my property!”

“I wouldn’t have dropped it -!”

“That wasn’t what I was talking about.”

The faint sound of a servo striking a face.

“I bought myself a musician.  I spent a lot of money on it.  It is mine.”

“Yes sir.”

The window was pulled shut and his doorwings couldn’t sense through the thick walls.

Prowl turned and shuffled back towards his room, processor spinning.

At first, Prowl had thought his private serenade was another patient in the next wing.  The songs had started out so sad…  When they grew lighter and happier he’d thought the invisible musician was healing.

He’d asked about the wing across from his window yesterday and was informed that it was actually a high end recording studio.  That explained why the music went silent once the window closed.

This time, his singer had left the window open.  This time he knew why his singer’s songs had started out so sorrowful.

Prowl was not particularly gifted in any of the arts, but in his own field, he was something of a maestro.  The thunderous symphony that he would be bringing down, upon the mech that dared harm the one bright spot he’d found in his recovery, would give the critics something to write about.

AU August Fic 4

Dinosaurs

 It was all his stupid, thick-helmed patron’s fault.  Jazz could be sipping high-grade at camp, gossiping with the other researchers - but no.  

 “I pay the wages around here,” Jazz mimicked quietly. “This is my land.”  

 Idiot-Supreme must have heard, because there was a growl from somewhere behind him.

 “Shut up!  I’m not the one who turned on the creepy machine and landed us here.”

 Here being somewhere between the First Age of Iron and the Second Age of Energon.  A billion vorns before the first Cybetronian would walk the planet.  The hot spots had yet to coalesce into proper wells.  The many tiny, weak hot spots were instead pouring spark energy out randomly into the planet, creating life at random.  None of it very sentient.  Most of it very very large.

 THUMP -      CRASH    !

 One of the enormous Astatine trees crashed behind them.  Jazz clawed at the metal beneath him - soft and pliable because the gold content was higher and the tungsten from the 8121 meteor crash hadn’t happened yet - and pulled himself higher up the mountain side.  Behind him, Slag-for-a-processor did the same.

 None of the so-called ‘dinosaurs’ were bot-eaters, at least not according to all of their findings, but they were not careful where they put their pedes.  And they had so many of those.

 The ones they were racing up the mountains seemed to just casually wander from one side of the planet to the other, knocking everything down in their wake.  

 Eventually, Jazz was hoping, it would get too steep for them and they would have to turn back.  They didn’t seem to be actively chasing, just lumbering in the same direction.

 Jazz looked up.  He could see three enormous helms at the end of three enormous necks above him.  If Flitwire were here, she would be able to name the exact species and explain to him why they had such long necks.

 Unfortunately, Jazz’s area of study was ancient civilizations, not ancient creatures.

 “Ahh!”

 Jazz looked back.

 Prowl, patron of his dig, slag-processored tyrant, had started to slide down the side of the mountain.  Great!

 “Ya idiot!  Hang on!”

 “I - I can’t!”  He was scrabbling at the metal, but his servos just tore through the soft metal.

 “Hang - slaggit!”  Praxians didn’t have magnets.  Jazz doubled back..  Another crash.  Slaggit!

 Prowl’s pede had found purchase in a single lump of iron, lodged in the surface.  He was clinging to the mountain and shaking like a sparkling.  

 Seeing his nemesis with his optics wide and bright with terror was not as enjoyable as Jazz would have liked.

 Once they were side by side, Jazz pried one of Prowl’s servos loose and hooked it onto his shoulder.

 “Now the other one!” he shouted.  “I’ll get us up!”  Prowl stared at him for a moment and then slowly let go of the bent and torn ground and gripped Jazz’s shoulders.

 Jazz clawed his way back up.  The whimper as Prowl’s pede left the rock wasn’t enjoyable either.  Slaggit.

 0-0-0

 They reached a flat, punched-in part of the very steep mountain.  The long-necked creatures had long since turned to walk along the side rather than continue upwards, but Jazz wasn’t chancing it.

 The flat was occupied, but the small winged things didn’t seem dangerous.  

 “I don’t know what those are,” Prowl panted as he pulled himself over the edge.  Jazz was about to make a snarky comment - either about Prowl being so lazy that being carried up tired him out or about him not knowing everything - but then he turned and offered Jazz as servo.   Jazz took it automatically and Prowl pulled him up.

 The tiny flapping things were huddled on one side, staring at them with absolutely enormous optics.

 “Me neither.  Think they’ll eat us?”

 “They look like relatives of Tapejaridae, but with smaller helm-crests…”

 “Do Tape Jars eat bots?”

 “      Tapejaridae    ,” Prowl corrected with a frown.  “No, they did not.”  He tried to stand and crashed back down, scaring the Tape Jars.  They squeaked and piled on top of one another trying to get away.

 Jazz laid down.  Unless the Tape Jars were about to set upon him and start pulling the plating from his frame, he wasn’t moving.  They'd been running from those giants since they’d arrived.  Well, there had been a few minutes where Jazz had screamed a lot about how Astatine trees had been extinct for 500 million vorns.        Then    the titan sized pedes had come crashing through the branches.

 “Sshhhhh.”

 Jazz kept his optics firmly off.

 “It is alright.  I won’t harm you.”

 Not getting involved.  Laying right here.

 “You are very beautiful.”

 Ugh.

 “Prowl, why are you sweet talking the Tape Jars?”  Jazz tilted his helm back to watch Prowl inching forwards.  He sighed and turned over.  Nope, it looked just as stupid right side up.

 “Prowl.”

 “Shhhh.”  He held out a servo and one of the Tape Jars snapped at it before retreating into the pile fearfully.  “Shhhh.”  He laid a single digit on one helm and stroked.

 The little thing trilled and closed its optics.  The others turned to look at it curiously.  Prowl scratched gently at the little fin on the top of its helm and it trilled louder.

 Suddenly the Tape Jars were tumbling over each other to get Prowl to pet them.

 “Beautiful.”  Was that - could that be - was Prowl actually smiling?  He lifted one of them from the pile - to the loud annoyance of its friends - and cradled it.

 “Look!” he said, turning it towards Jazz.  It stared up at him. Prowl pointed.  “It had landing gear instead of pedes.  This might be some of the earliest examples of wheeled motion!  Most researchers believe that wheels arrived with the Seventh Age of Energon when cybertronians started to populate the planet and needed a quicker way to cross the barren plains - by then the forests had mostly died due to the Third Extinction Event - but there is a theory that wheels have existed much longer!  This is the discovery of a lifetime!”

 The discovery of a lifetime was content to lay on its back, wings akimbo, as Prowl prodded its tiny landing gear pedes.

 Jazz vaguely understood why scientists like Flitwire and - apparently - Prowl got excited about things like this.  He tried to compare it to discovering when bots first built shelters or how his fellow researchers had gotten into a fistfight at the last convention over which city had the oldest evidence of intentional art.  

 Just…these things happened at random.  Oooo - suddenly wings!   Random emergence of wheels!  How did that compare to the idea of bots just like them discovering music for the first time?  Or figuring out how to build the first two story building?

 The little Tape Jar was cute at least.  Jazz reached out and petted it.  It trilled.

 “How do ya know all that?” Jazz asked as the Tape Jar nuzzled his servo.  Prowl frowned and turned away from him, just slightly.

 “I am overseeing the dig.  I needed to know these things.”

 Now Jazz was confused.

 “No ya don’t.  None of the other landowners knew any of this.   They just asked if any of it was valuable or if we found any really spooky frame burials.”

 Prowl looked uncomfortable.  

 “I - “

 A Trill split the air.  A very      very    loud trill.

 They looked up.

 Circling above them was something that looked exactly like the Tape Jars but scaled up to about the size of a tankformer.

 “Is that gonna eat us?”

 “No.  But it might try to defend its young.”  In Prowl’s arms the little Tape Jar trilled up happily at its creator.

 “Do ya think it’ll like a nice scratch too?”

 “I do not think it will give us enough time to find out.  Up or down?”

 “Down.  Very down.  Now.”

 Prowl reluctantly set the bitlet down and they both raced toward the edge..

 The bitlet Tape Jar pulled itself towards them with its wings, rolling on its wheels.  The others behind it also started rolling forwards, complaining at their leaving.

 “Good bye,” Prowl said.  “Thank you for letting me see you!”

 “Hurry!”

 0-0-0

 They made it back down in the middle of the dark cycle.  

 They didn’t say anything.  Jazz was too tired and Prowl looked like he’d had to leave behind his best friend.

 In comparison to the bot he’d met at the dig site the first day - nosey, arrogant, easily offended - this version of Prowl was subdued and apparently soft for tiny dinosaurs.

 Jazz tried to start a few conversation, but they fizzled out until -

 “That is a      Arthropleura    .”

 “Huh?  A what?”  Prowl pointed.  Jazz squinted at the darkness.  The moving darkness.

 “Holy slag!” he      squeaked     yelled.  It looked like a transport train - it was nearly the size of a transport train - but with millions of tiny legs instead of wheels.  “Is that gonna eat us?”

 “Not unless we lay down and cover our frames in tin grass and crystals.  And wait.  It is not fast.”

 No it wasn’t.

 “That’s a really big bug.”

 “The largest of its kind ever.”  Prowl sounded almost wistful, like he wished the giant nightmare still existed.  At least one of them was having fun.

 “Well,” Jazz said, looking around, “we’re going to have to find some shelter then, ‘cause one of my plans was to just lay down and maybe use a leaf for a blanket.”

 “We should climb.  Many of these branches are large enough to serve as berths and if my dating of this place is correct, most flying dinosaurs have not yet colonized the trees.”

 “Less of a chance to get eaten.  Got it.  Can ya even climb a tree?”

 Prowl started to nod and then he looked at the closet one.  It was easily ten times as big around a shuttle and the lowest branch was still six stories tall.  There were not many servo or pede holds.

 “I may require some aid,” he said quietly.

 0-0-0

 They made it up into the tree without falling.  Slipping yes, falling no.

 The branch they’d picked was twice as wide as a berth.  Jazz made Prowl take the part closest to the trunk so that at least in one direction he wouldn’t roll off.

 It wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t the worst place he’d recharged.

 Prowl laid down and stared straight up without speaking.  The sky above them had so much neon that the color was an electric red.  It was strange and unsettling.

 Jazz settled down on his side to avoid looking at that sky, expecting to drop off immediately.

 He didn’t.

 He knew Prowl wasn’t recharging either.

 He laid there for half an hour before he got too bored.

 “Do you think they’ve noticed we’re gone yet?” he asked, not expecting an answer.

 “That depends," Prowl said, voice low and strained.  

 “Depends?”

 “If the machine creates a stable time loop or if it creates alternate realities.  Or if it is a dependent loop, in which case we have to be careful not to make any changes or else we might erase ourselves from existence.”

 “Erase ourselves?!”

 Prowl turned towards him.  Optics a dull golden.

 “Unlikely.  I believe this is a stable and probably a timed loop.  Depending on how the loop is powered we might very well wake up back in our own time, moments after we disappeared.”

 “Well…let’s hope it’s that one.”  Maybe he should have stayed quiet and pretended to recharge.

 “Either way,” Prowl continued, “we have gathered plenty of knowledge about how to survive here.  You have proven yourself capable of keeping us safe.  Tomorrow will be better.”

 The was oddly optimistic.

 “Ya did a good job, too,” Jazz offered.  “What with the Tape Jars and knowing what everything is.”

 Prowl was quiet for so long Jazz thought he’d fallen into recharge.  Then -

 “Thank you.  I apologize if I have angered you.  I know I was rude at the site and I have not been very patient.  And I should not have touched the time machine - not that we knew what it was.  I should have listened to you.”

 Jazz remembered shouting at him.        “Don’t touch that!  Ya got no idea what ya doing!  Go back ta ya castle and let us work!”  

 The apology was not as satisfying as he’d expected.

 “Why are you always at the site?  It’s hot and loud and dirty.   Ya don’ get ta do anything and everyone gets made at ya.”  That was not an exaggeration.  Jazz was only the most recent in a long line of scientists at the dig that had had to deal with Prowl bullying his way onto the site and into their work.

 Prowl shifted and then pulled his legs up to his chest.  He suddenly looked much younger.

 “I just -”  Prowl looked away.  “I just wanted to be part of something for once.  The enforcers let me complete basic training and I - stupid and      young    - thought it meant I would be one of them.  Instead, they wanted me to go into politics and push whatever agenda the Superintendent had.  When my creators told me about taking stewardship of our ancestral lands I thought I could      do    something.”  He shifted away from Jazz, curling inwards.  He gazed out at the strange sky beyond the branches  “I’ve been asking the site manager for weeks if I could come help.  I just want to      do    something.”  His voice faltered and he fell silent.

 Jazz stared at him.  

 “Nevermind.  We’ll figure out how to get back tomorrow and you can go back to digging and I’ll just -”

 Jazz put an awkward servo on Prowl’s shoulder.

 “Nah mech, nah.  Ya’ll come ta the dig wit’ me.  Flitwire’ll love havin’ another expert ta chatter at.”

 “I do not know how to -”

 “I’ll show ya.”

 Prowl lifted his servo and covered Jazz’s, pinning it to his shoulder like he didn’t want Jazz to let go.

 “Okay.”

I find that the best way to combat writer’s block is to always end in the middle when the words are flowing, but I’m getting too tired to hold my eyes open.  That way some of the flow is still there, like a seed crystal buried in the words.

Excerpt:

One of the things Prowl had not been prepared for on his journey to Captain of his own Station, was that he would have to bail out his own enforcers.

Frequently.

“This is all a big misunderstanding!”

“We will crack open this case with a can opener!”

“I was not supposed to be here.”

Behind the laser bars stood, in order: a placating Nightbeat, an over-charged Searchlight, and a morose Smokescreen.

Behind him, Prowl could hear the officers of the 3rd Street Enforcers giggling.

“Did any of you use your processors, at any time, during any of this?” he asked, rhetorically.  Of course they hadn’t.  If they had he wouldn’t be standing here, in front of the snickering 3rd Street Captain, with a very sleepy Chase under his arm, bailing them out of jail for trespassing.