A/N:

G1-based but definitely some concepts from IDW comics.
I don't own Transformers, G1 or otherwise.

Like many times before our arrival on Earth and plenty of times since, Jazz sat in my office being what I loosely called "Office Jazz." Jazz had two primary modes of work: a strong-willed saboteur, and the faux-working officer. When the situation called for him to be an officer he didn't falter but it didn't last a breem longer than whatever elected the response. Beyond that his methods of working around the Ark when his specialty wasn't relevant was something he called "Jazz-man's office smarts." I called it skillful cheating. Somehow he learned to artfully and almost invisibly stay on top of his work without ever completely finishing or falling behind while maintaining a healthy social life.

I think I envied him but such a possibility was lost on me, and the idea of loss was irrelevant to me as well. Right now what wasn't loss on me was the near-certainty that Jazz was trying to pawn some of his work off on me.

"Come on, man. You're doing the exact same work on the exact same five reports. It won't slow you down and you're getting something out of it."

"It goes against the regulations for one, and it undermines the entire purpose for two. There's no logic behind a double verification if I do the work and you copy off of me."

"These aren't critical reports. They might walk-the-walk of field critical reports but they talk like Red and Primus, we all know what that means. Unless you actually find something, it's just five reports of a running dialog of paranoid conniptions. I wish you'd keep him in the Ark for these things. At least then there's the chance of something funny in them like Sideswipe."

"Prime wants everyone to have field assignments, even if it's once every three months. At a minimum it gives everyone a reprieve from the same routine within the same walls, at a maximum it keeps them familiar with Earth so they aren't easily taken back by an impromptu battle - which most of them are. Rarely do we receive a message from Megatron about his upcoming To-Do list."

Jazz snickered. "Like you're one to talk about same routines. I'll double my offer."

"Prime's words, not mine. I agreed because I see the logic behind knowing Earth and its various possibilities in battle. That's why everyone gets at least one assignment per season, and at least two in suburban areas while the other two in remote regions. We're also trying to get Red Alert out of his comfort zone so maybe he'll learn how to channel and control his paranoia into more healthy and productive manners, rather than remain crippled by it. Doubling your offer doesn't change the fact I don't need the original five to begin with."

"That's very caring of you, though I'm suspicious of you using 'we' rather than 'Prime,' but that's not going to change my mind on my offer. I counter your nay-Jazz argument with a 'no.'"

I raised an optic ridge, as expected of me from such vapid retaliations being made against my calculated arguments. I knew Jazz wasn't being serious. I also didn't get why he was obstinate during these times. I suspected this fell under his crafty ways of getting what he wanted by 'risking' laughter rather than hurt feelings. Neither yet worried me but I never told him. "I can get my own energon, thank you very much."

"Yeah, that's what you think, and that's what everyone would think of a fully-grown and serious officer. I'm offering you ten shifts' worth of energon being brought to you by me during those shifts. I'll even toss in a freebee and give you double-dose of Jazz time. No charge or 'thank you's necessary."

His flashy grin reminded me I need to check our stocks of polish. There's a few mechs who try sneaking off with more than their deca-orn ration. I don't believe Jazz is one of them. His shine was more genuine and natural than most. "So you're planning on me doing all the work of meticulously reading and analyzing Red Alert's reports on his half deca-orn assignment in exchange for energon catering and your smile?"

"And laughter. And other stuff, too. Ya'know I'm good for more stuff than just a smile? Jazz-man is more than just a pretty face." Did his smile just flicker downward for a moment?

"Indeed, there's a very skilled saboteur underneath it. I'm fully aware I'd be thorough anyhow regardless of the outcome of your trade," I stated calmly while returning back onto topic, "and that it doesn't impact me if you use my analysis to fake your own. It does impact the example we set as officers."

I waited for his usual counterargument with the same playful banter. He didn't speak but just kept looking at me. Is he staring? I grapple to understand what's the appropriate response. Staring resulted in discomfort for the stared-upon. Sometimes it was fidgeting and sometimes it was "blushing", as the humans called it. Before a misunderstanding by Bumblebee on a moment between Spark and Carly I never bothered learning what it was called when... something... heated a mech's facial plates. A rush of energon? Heat from energy surges along nerve wires? Primus, was it typical for an Autobot to know that? I should look it up when Jazz is gone.

As soon as his name crossed my mind I returned my focus to the physical world and not my inner confliction. Jazz was slowing beginning to speak. Good, I don't have to worry about what I'm supposed to be doing for the moment.

"How about if I do my reports and bring you energon for the ten shifts, same time at your desk? That should satisfy your reservations and maybe we can understand each other better than a tactician and a saboteur."

Once more I raised my optic ridge; a powerful, simple "catch all" expression, or so I learned long ago. It meant whatever the other person saw so I didn't worry about me making an error. The optic ridge raise was to me what the smile was to Jazz. "Don't we already?"

"Maybe, maybe not. I'm talking about a friendly break and you keep talking about logic and our work. You're talking about me but not me Jazz, me the saboteur. Somehow we're never talking about the same thing unless it's strictly about tactical or office stuff."

He's starting to frown. Have I upset him? I nearly frown. Jazz taxes me but he doesn't know that. No one does, not even Ratchet. Jazz is one of the few mechs I try understanding at an emotion-level. I inwardly focus hard, searching for a sense of emotion. I liken my long-standing situation to two different scenarios; this was the scenario of talking to someone you once knew and you struggle for immediately calling the memories to stay in the conversation. Some memories come to you, some do not. Those that come are fragments just beyond your fingertips and it takes considerable effort to connect.

My fragments are telling me that I am... worried. Internally I snort. That one was obvious. I return my attention to my involuntary body signs, forgoing my attempt at comprehending what vaguely registers in my processor. My spark is fluttering and even my doorwings are starting to do the same. I immediately still them. They want to keep doing it. My jaw is tight but my hands aren't and my energon's temperature hasn't risen, so I'm not angry. Damn it, what am I?

"Jazz, I am sorry if you feel unappreciated." That's it, right? He's feeling unappreciated and I feel guilty. It's my best understanding for now. "I will do the work - so long as you tell no one - and we can share energon for ten shifts. If you want, I'll even try for fifteen."

He smiles and his shoulders relax. Immediately I can connect to a familiar fragment. My spark is calmer, my jaw relaxed, and my doorwings are no longer fighting me. These all mean I'm relieved, but now I need a moment. This always invariably gives me a process ache. Right now it's just beginning and hopefully this will end soon so it's a brief ache.

Jazz enthusiastically takes up my offer. "Great! I'll see you in six joors. I'm planning on holding you to your promised fifteen starting now. Your scheduled shift isn't quite half over, and we know that means you won't actually leave until your shift is over and the next shift is well 'n' good in their duties. That's at least ten more joors. If it were up to me, in six joors I'd be taking you to dinner."

"I'm glad you're happy but you need to stop describing Autobots and Cybertronian behaviorisms with human activities. We do not have dinners."

"Maybe we should because then we could have dinner dates."

Oh no, he's brought up the d-word again. Primus damn it. I can barely tell what his frowns mean and my clenched jaw, how am I supposed to figure what his tone means in conjuncture to that word, and my feelings to it? I still haven't identified the tone with any real statistical confidence. My thoughts on the matter remain as "Primus damn it" but my observations of the mechs around me informs me that this requires emotional input, if not an emotion response. Last time I tried responding purely on thought I angered Jazz. It took me a little while but I finally realized in that deca-orn I hurt him significantly and I was something akin to sad. I don't care about my own feelings but I know I care about his and I never want him to look at me like that again. My spark pulses hard and my chest feels tight, like there's not enough room for my energon pump to function properly.

"I can't imagine what things would look like around here if we had dinners, but I imagine Sideswipe would find some way to make it prank." My copout. Whenever I don't know what to do and it has something to do with the base or social situations, I just say "Sideswipe" and "prank". It's like magic because everyone assumes they know what I mean and lets me off the hook. Every once in a while I have to throw in an "angry Ratchet" but Jazz's pleasant chuckle and smile informs me that I don't need to use it this time. Jazz is also one of the very few who don't follow up my "Sideswipe prank" copout with their own rhetoric about me being someone with no emotions but a giant rod lodged deeply into a part of the anatomy. My spark is warm and my chest no longer feels constricted, I idly note while thinking about how Jazz doesn't treat me.

"I understand, my man. Don't you go scheduling any meetings six joors from now!"

"I promise." I offer him a slight smile and he nearly bounces out of the room. When the door closes I automatically lock it and turn off all sources of light and sound. I need a few breems for the processor ache.

It's been ten shifts since I promised Jazz a shared refuel and most of them fulfilled the agreement. A couple we missed but that's the nature of being an officer. Jazz informed me they don't count as part of my fifteen and I'm alright with that. If it keeps him happy then it keeps my spark from making those painful pulses, and Jazz unknowingly taught me it's the best way to gauge the appropriateness of my social actions as they happen.

For most mechs my spark does not respond very much, if at all. Before Earth that wasn't an issue because of ongoing transfers and bypassing units. I rarely bothered with my spark at all. So long as my spark functioned I ignored it. There have been a few additions since Earth but not enough to disguise it as the result of an overburdened officer in a sea of nameless bodies. Hmm, maybe that attitude is what solidified my reputation as sparkless.

Here they talk. A lot. Mostly in the same room I must enter for my energon, too. I requested a dispenser in my office nearly a half-a-dozen times but Prime refuses. The last time he pretty much snapped at me to shut up and sharply told me that it's for my good. I assume the snippiness was from post-battle fatigue and dismiss his notion of it being for my improvement as a romantic idealization. Prime is infatuated with the idea of obtaining our "happily ever afters" despite the war. Jazz tells me it's one of our only ways to keep ourselves free from Decepticon oppression. I replied by pointing out that our strongholds and battles are what prevent us from being overrun by Decepticon oppression. He looked disappointed in me. Now I go to the stupid Rec Room to get my energon.

"Prowl!" A hyper voice calls out to me after I barely clear the entry way. I expected to find Bluestreak but instead it's a giddy Bumblebee. "Have you seen Jazz?"

"No. We had a break together but I haven't seen him since."

"Oh, okay." The young scout's face is easy for me to read. Whether he knows it or not, he exaggerates his facial expressions more than the soldiers I secretly studied. The sudden reduction in his energetic output helped.

"What's wrong?"

"What makes you think something is wrong?"

'Your face,' I silently reply. I didn't need Jazz to teach me that's not a friendly reaction to verbalize. "You seem concerned more than curious."

"Yeah, he seemed distracted around high noon," the scout began. I mentally calculate Earth time relative to my Autobot schedule and determine that Bumblebee is starting at a point shortly after my break with Jazz. Perhaps right after our break. Bumblebee continues, "After a quick chat with Mirage about some missions we're planning he went out for a drive."

"In this weather?" I heard the rain when walking to the Rec Room.

Bumblebee shrugged. "It was almost clear skies when he left."

Should I go find him? I listen to my spark. It flutters a few times. From context I gather it's answered with a "Yes!" Too bad I never understand what it says after that. Does my spark really want to go out in the rain? It's not a downpour but if I heard it that means it isn't a light drizzle, either. The heavier the rains, the more the mud, and that requires a trip to the main washracks near the Ark's entrance so I don't track mud to my own washracks. Busy group washracks can be worse than busy Rec Rooms.

I sigh, irritated with my spark rather than the rain. "I assume you tried comm'ing him or checking his quarters?"

"Yeah. He replied to the comm. awhile ago about needing a personal moment. We checked his quarters a few breems ago. Washracks, too. We aren't sure if it's right to comm. him again if he needs some time to himself. Jazz so rarely takes time out for just him." Someone called Bumblebee's name from the busy couch and television. Bumblebee is clearly torn between finding his missing friend and enjoying his downtime with a throng of friends.

"I'll look for Jazz. Assuming you completed your post-shift duty summation report, you may go enjoy your time off with your comrades."

His reassured and ecstatic face is his "thank you" as he darts over to his friends. I try comm'ing Jazz but naturally I didn't reach him. It may be best to let him have his time.

Ouch! My spark practically smacks my chest. These last back-to-back eight shared breaks seem to have brought out its talkative side. Begrudgingly I skip the energon to find Jazz. Thanks to Jazz and my earlier break I'll be fine for a while yet, anyways. Well, by my standards.

I remotely access Teletraan to get his location. As soon as I have confirmation I head to the main entrance while cursing Jazz. That's enough distance to make it statistically certain I will be too muddy when I return to wait out any washrack occupants. Even better, I'm pretty sure he's at a grass field.

I carefully make my way to his coordinates, driving against the low setting sun, periodically checking in with Teletraan to make sure I'm not approaching an abandoned resting area. The rain evidently stopped while I spoke with Bumblebee but the ground is still holding onto my wheels and trying to attach itself to my undercarriage. Perhaps Jazz was just waiting out the messy terrain to come back.

There! He's under some pine trees with only his lower legs exposed, based on the water patterns. He's lounging and I'm fairly certain he briefly recharged out here, if those flattened grass patterns are anything to go by. He's not looking my way and based on his tapping ped, it's likely he's engrossed in his music.

I transform to bipedal mode and slowly crouch to him from behind the trees, completely abandoning any hope to avoid the grime. Now I'm just trying to minimize grass stains because those don't wash out easily. Hopefully this will be worth it. Jazz finds it amusing when I live up to my name and I saw a faint frown on his kind face. Now I need to get the doorwings to behave themselves. You too, spark. Honestly, it's like there's three or four entities in this body and I get last say in what it does.

I can't believe how close I'm getting. As soon as I reach the tree, pressed almost flat against the ground, I snapped my hand forward and playfully push his shoulder.

"Ah! What the frag?!" Jazz sputters, snaps up, and spins his upper torso at me. I can see his legs digging into the ground to automatically launch an attack but Jazz gains control of himself and stops. His legs aren't relaxing though. "Damn it, Prowl!"
"It's not my fault you failed being an Autobot today." I slowly bring myself up, mindful of the mushy grass, and plan for settling next to Jazz. He shifts his weight away from me. What's that about? "Do I smell?"

"Huh? No..."

"I'm covered in bits of Earth's nature and you moved away from me," I point out.

He stares at me. I haven't a clue what he's thinking so I stare back. After almost a whole fragging breem of staring I raise my optic ridge, hoping it works.

"Prowl, how can you look at me like that?"

"Isn't this how I normally look when I'm not working?"

Jazz huffs and moves further away from me, now practically leaning against a different tree. I can already feel the pending processor ache I'll get from trying to understand him to the best of my limited capabilities. He mutters, "I can't believe you."

There's that budding sense of a processor ache. I dig through my thoughts and emotions during our refuel break. There's a problem with that, though. I can't remember emotions unless I completely notice them at the time. I know that's never going to happen but I'm trying. "I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings," I attempt. I remember his face and sudden posture change befuddling me before he claimed a comm. from Mirage and made a hasty departure. I thought I was rubbing off on him, getting him to take his job more seriously.

"You can't be sorry if you don't know what you did. I know that doorwing twitch; you haven't the foggiest idea what I'm talking about," he accused. My doorwings are twitching? Damn it, they are. He can read me better than me because I don't know what "that twitch" is.

He's right; I really don't know. "Please explain it to me."

"Why?" In one word he went from annoyed to irritate.

Imploringly I look at him, hoping I'm correctly conveying a need for him to talk. Words aren't working for me but maybe Jazz can fill them in for me if I try using his language: communication by expression.

He heavily exhales and sinks down, his back sliding down the tree. "You aren't honest with me, Prowl."

"I haven't lied to you."

"You're hiding things."

"Like what?"

"Like how I asked you what you thought about going to a concert."

"And I replied with 'dastardly.'" His actual question at the time made my attempted joke sound slightly better.

"Yeah, and then I asked you how you felt about going to a concert with me." Now I can hear his pain. His posture is only feigning relaxation. I can see the strain in the visible muscle cables.

"And I tried using humor to elaborate on how I feel about concerts." Music is almost completely about emotions. Going to a concert with anyone is a natural aversion to me. They'd want to talk to me about it and between the sensor inputs, confusion trying to determine what to focus on for my manual interpretations, and the fact I'd actually have to fake answers makes it completely unpleasant.

"Whenever I try getting you involved in something not work related you excuse yourself by hiding behind our pranksters and this notion you gotta deal with them all by yourself."

Damn. He's caught onto me. "I'm sorry Jazz. I'm not comfortable with loud noises. Doorwing sensors are quite the pain." Now I'm trying copout number two.

"That's why it's a small concert with much softer orchestral sounds. In fact, I think several of the last activities I tried getting you join me where along the same lines!" Jazz roughly sat back up and stared into me. Not at me but into me.

I felt my doorwings shiver and I asked my spark, 'What's going on?' It was pulsing rapidly against a confined chest and I felt heat in my facial plates. I don't know what that means! "I'm sorry," was all I could offer.

"I don't want your 'sorry', I want your honesty. I've been trying this for so long. Too long." What's he talking about? "Pit, how many times do I have to talk about dates, events, or outings just to get a straight, honest answer from you? I just want to know how you feel about me."

He's dropping the d-word again but I know this tone. I deliberately drag out answering him by slowly lowering myself against a tree, putting him in my peripheral vision. Music and the d-word fall under the same category for me. I wished many times to never hear Jazz saw that word in that tone. It's happened to me twice before, one before I knew Jazz and the other when I knew him as an acquaintance. I'm going to miss Jazz being a daily occurrence in my life. I mental sever that connection to my spark I was only recently working on building up in eagerness of finally bypassing my permanent loss. I swear I heard it say 'no!' before it lost its voice by me the offlining the surrounding sensors. It's been an uncountable number of vorns since I shut them all off.

A long time ago I kept two sensors active in case something happened to my spark, like a blast or something easily classified as bad. With Jazz I'd been slowly turning the rest on one-by-one so my spark could speak louder. It hurt but I was trying. Was. Technically turning them all off was a death risk because I could have a spark-attack and never know until it was too late, but the ability was built into my system for a reason. Ratchet doesn't know I can do this but that's because he doesn't know about what I permanently loss. I've never been injured by my spark, either, so he has no reason to check. Neither it nor my loss made their way into my file. Severing that spark connection should mitigate most of my doorwing reactions also.

"Jazz, you are a good mech. A friendly shoulder. A fine work companion. An excellent Autobot. You and I can never been anything more than that."

From my peripheral vision I can see a violent tremor pass through his frame at my detached tone-less words. The tremor stayed in his hands. I didn't focus on his face. I'm sure it spoke the words he couldn't get out. A hand clenched and his entire being left my vision. I heard him transform and leave quickly. I stayed behind, allowing him time to make it back to the Ark and clean up. I unwounded my shoulders and rest against the tree. The bark, the breeze, and the few rain drops escaping the pines are all I feel.

Almost a full deca-orn passed without an incident by my count. Jazz was rarely around. We were never within arm's range of each other unless in the presence of other officers. He wouldn't look at me unless necessary. I'd seen a few of the looks he gave me from a distance. I'm sure I'd feel unpleasant about the looks if it were possible.

Naturally a small wave of tension passed through the Ark when Jazz confided in someone. No one but I, Jazz, and whoever that mech was knew what happened. All that was known was Jazz was upset and I caused it. I was called a few things to my face by Jazz's supporters. I was mildly surprised (probably) that I was confronted by only a few, but to my limited knowledge Jazz wasn't pursuing an idea of punishing me by social expulsion. Someone obviously stepped in before it got any further. My suspicions were on Prime. Answers and defending myself weren't something I needed to know or do for my work and I elected to leave it wherever it lied beyond my awareness.

Prime did try talking about it to me. I politely declined. He actually tried getting a rise out of me but I kept politely declining until his shoulders dropped in defeat. After he gave up all I heard were few quiet remarks from those believing themselves to be speaking in private. Largely said remarks amounted to me being a jerk that showed no distress or reaction to the situation. Actually, "jerk" is a really nice way of paraphrasing it.

My work became more efficient and while I found myself repeated getting warning alerts for energon, I considered it a tactical positive. I can always grab an energon cube on my way out, but I can't formulate and distribute a tactical plan on-the-fly for basic plans and contingencies. Modify in battle with changing variables, sure, but not creating them from scratch.

My self-assurances became vindicated during an attack by Megatron. This attack to be precise, and one I might add that he didn't kindly inform us ahead of time from his To-Do list. I still haven't figured out what it supposedly accomplishing. It looks like they're going after energy lines but there's something off about their movement patterns.

"Sunstreaker!" I called out through the commlink. "Flank to the left of Tracks and round Dead End by his right. His right arm is swinging slower." The frontliner did as ordered and succeeded but more Decepticon soldiers were coming his way. They seemed to split between Prime's group and the frontliner's group. Sideswipe was at the halfway point with his own mini-group.

I was alone and shielded by rocks and wood crates, half-crouched and hiding myself from view. It was an outdoor construction area where the lines were supposed to be doubled as part of a human-Autobot effort. I looked around carefully. It's as if the missing Megatron is calling for a pincer attack, except the drive is all wrong. I can't find Megatron anymore but I know it's not because of us. Soundwave is missing, too.

I see Jazz near a truck with a tiny warning symbol for flammables. I calmly order, "Jazz, use your flamethrower on that lone silver truck by Swindle."

He pushes himself free of a Constructicon and does as order without fail. A true Autobot and real officer. I'm theoretically proud of him for acting without pause despite getting the order from me.

The explosion is big enough that it takes down Swindle and a few other Decepticons that didn't realize the plain truck wasn't safe. Not when I see it. Suddenly I hear Megatron's booming-yet-raspy voice, "Decepticons, begin pulling back!"

Instantly I search for his physical location. He's almost free of the entire skirmish and closer to me than makes sense. Suddenly I hear growling behind me. I turn around just as I think, 'Please don't let this make sense.'

I don't complete the turn in time. I feel Ravage's claws dig into my back and then his teeth around the back of my neck. Is he trying to bite through my spine? What sense does that make? Either swing forward and go for the energon line or - wait a klik. Stop it, logic. We're fighting a cat that's trying to kill me from behind and I can't get my acid pellet rifle between me and him.
Is he breathing on me? When did he get lungs and how illogical is that? It feels wet and -

PAIN!

Pain raced from where Ravage was "breathing" and burning my processor, my battle computer, my everything in my neck and head. Whatever he's putting on my neck is going through the armor and using my spine like a highway straight into my head.

I start shooting wildly, not giving the slightest damn of the acid pellets piercing my doorwings. Suddenly Ravage is off and he's running away, but the pain isn't leaving. It's getting worse!

I try calling for help but my voice and commlink aren't working. Either Ravage's 'breath' went after my vocalizer and commlink, Ravage physically did something, or I can't get it together. My mind races, struggling vehemently to find a way to identify the attack so I can stop it. My battle simulator suddenly sees an answer. It's stuck where the permanently-damaged part of my processor exists. I need to shut off my processor. How? It's not like I have a shutoff button or some mental shutdown code. It's easier for me to get knocked offline accidently by my glitch than me doing it deliberately.

The glitch! I need to trigger it. I look out at the battlefield as each side moves, us driving them back while they take energy. I look for something so fundamentally illogical I can't process it.

Thundercracker is kind of cute.

My burning processor retaliates with 'Seekers and Praxians are known to see each other that way. Physical attractions are independent of faction-affiliation and therefore still perfectly logical.'

What the Pit, processor?! Sideswipe can cause you to glitch with a spray can but me looking at a Decepticon with anything but contempt is totally fine?

I drop down on the ground, now completely flat. I didn't even know I was on my knees. Where are my doorwings? Are they still attached?

PAIN!

I look for my Prime and find him far below and his pointing suggests he took over all orders, including mine. Someone has to be coming soon if Prime just took over. He's glaring at Megatron. I look to Megatron, whose smirking right back. His smirking mouth almost looks like a certain minibot's fake pout. It's like he's pouting at Optimus. Like maybe he wants Optimus the same way Elita wants -

|/\/\/\|

My hearing comes back first. I can hear quiet discussions from at least three mechs. I can feel the coolness of a medical berth. Now I'm suspicious. Why would at least three mechs be here? At most it'd be Ratchet and Prime.

I leave my optics last, mentally gearing for whatever three-plus Autobots look like. It looks like most of the officers and medical staff. I carefully look around at Ratchet, Ironhide, Prime, Wheeljack, Perceptor, and Jazz. All of them look disturbed to some degree but Jazz the most. He's sitting behind all the standing officers and Prime.

I think I'm scared but maybe it's the approaching Ratchet's very concerned face. A snarky Ratchet says you're going to be okay. A wary Ratchet surrounded by medical and official staff is incredibly daunting, to say the least.

My spark leaps. As soon as I caught that sensation my cycling energon stopped cold from my freezing pump. "Ratchet," I calmly interrupt him in his tracks, "what did you do?"

"A lot," came the gruff-yet-hesitant reply.

I'm trying to run a self-diagnostic while checking my internal chronometer. I've been out for half a deca-orn. "I imagine you can do a lot considering how long my chronometer says I've been at your discretion."

"Prowl." Prime stops everything. "Ratchet, please summarize the medical report for Prowl before we continue."

Slag. I can tell there's something really wrong, based on Ratchet and Jazz's face. Prime interrupting everything to keep on track isn't a sign of anything by itself, but a worried Ratchet and an upset Jazz means something. Plus there's that panicking spark in my chest that I shouldn't know about. I struggle until I'm sitting and Wheeljack helps me up.

Ratchet nodded. "Prowl, we found you with your doorwings chewed up by your acid pellet and several claw marks. We figured you shot yourself getting Ravage off. When I saw the pattern on your neck I realized it was likely nanites attacked you through your nero-network. When we stabilized you I checked out your processor and discovered wide-spread damage. It would have been worse but your glitch was triggered and between frying some circuits and losing power to others, the nanites were drastically slowed down. First time that glitch was any good." He scowled, probably reminiscing about a few endeavors that brought me to him with less favorable glitch-related results.

"I don't like poking around a mech's processor unless it's necessary. Even then I stick to only what I need to examine. Normally I only examine your battle simulation computer because the glitch affects it the most. Long time ago I checked the glitch since it was in your records but didn't see a solution."

"I'm aware," I murmured. I think I know where this is going. I mentally start preparing myself. I can see Jazz behind Ratchet and he's leaning further forward.

"How the Pit was it missed that you have permanent shorts in your processor?!" He angry exclaimed. "Then there are two wires completely dead but they're acting like a bridge so the shorts sometimes connect. I tried getting to them so I could figure out what happened, what part of your uniquely-screwed-up processor that is, and if it's fixable. It's too complicated and I can't safely get to it. Yet. So before I knock you back out and trace it through an extremely labor-intensive method to find what it's supposed to be doing and go from there, I'm giving you this one chance to tell me how you hid this, why you hid it, and what it's supposed to be doing? Oh, and by the way, the totally illegal neuro-net adapter you have for your spark-based sensors. Which were completely turned off!" He actually yelled that last part and slammed his hand down on a tray next to my berth.

And there it was. I thought about the adapter and my hurting chest. Perhaps this will be easier without the distraction. Even if I had a spark-attack I'd still be okay because Ratchet's machines would pick up on it before anything happened.

A machine beeped from my side and Ratchet scowled at me. "No!" he snarled and we all jumped. "I couldn't turn off the adapter because of its shoddy patchwork around those shorts but I did add a travel-size monitor as your newest accessory." He poked me in the arm and suddenly I felt it. "You even try accessing it again and not only will this beep again, but it'll tell me no matter where I am so I can come and slap you."

Prime looked at me with cool optics but there was something in those optics that said he wasn't happy. "Prowl, Ratchet informed me that you've never had a processor injury since he's known you that explain the described damage. Our only conclusion is that you've been hiding this for a while."

"Obviously." My dry response slipped out and almost immediately angered everyone.

Ironhide snapped, "How can you be some calm about this, about lying to us? You worked with all of us and never thought to mention about you giving orders with a misfiring processor?"

"That's exactly why I can stay calm, and it's also why I can give orders without the problems you go through when commanding or reprimanding mechs you know," I pointed out. "It's no secret that most see me as an emotionless drone. The truth?" I briefly looked directly at Jazz before returning to the standing officer cluster. "Those damaged wires are part of my emotional sub-routines. I'm not emotionless; I just normally can't feel them. I know they're there and sometimes I can forcefully get one or two of them across - I suppose the bridge has something to do with that - but I usually don't understand them anyways."

I let my fans pull in more air while I worked on calming my spark down the old-fashion way. "When I was a youngling I got into trouble. I was old enough to do something especially stupid but not old enough to automatically have it held against me. Ratchet, what do my records say about the origin of my glitch?"

Ratchet fussed when the attention was abruptly turned back to him. "It says a youngling-hood accident caused it."

"It's basically a lie." I might as well swing for the hills, as Jazz would say. Speaking of Jazz, I flicker my gaze at him just briefly. He's not hiding his dismay as well as he probably thinks he is. I can't look at him so long as it's there. "I had a lapse of judgment and befriended some younglings that I'd be shock if they didn't eventually become Decepticons. We were committing a minor crime -" at least two mechs gasped quietly "- and it didn't go well. My head was critically injured. The medic who cared for me realized the damage created a permanent glitch and he wouldn't be able to fix it. He put that in my medical records since it'd be a lifelong problem. He convinced the Enforcers to let me be by pointing out my predicament. Evidently he had quite the soft-spot for younglings. He was certain that with the right tools he could fix the remaining damage so he didn't want to add other processor damage in my medical records. He knew what that'd mean, even if he fixed it the very next orn. He died from a medical raid attack before he had those tools.

"You can probably speculate what it's like growing up as a youngling with only the rare and fleeting sense of emotion. Unless it was something I knew before the accident I couldn't recognize it. I... had some problems." I'm not about to elaborate about my remaining criminal friends fearing me as a psychopathic youngling, pointed out by one youngling after getting a hold of psychology bookfile. I stayed around to help one youngling because I knew we were loyal together despite being unable to emotionally reciprocate. I embraced the label for a while. I was well-organized, secretive, manipulative, no longer felt remorse or guilt, and I disdained social mores. Evidently that was textbook for "psychopath" but I never told anyone. The younglings that wanted to share my problem were too scared to cross me.

"Eventually I realized I wasn't alright with that. A friend of mine was going to school for medical training and innovation." More specifically, that youngling I stayed around to save grew up with the idea to save me and mechs like me. "Without being able to fix it directly he decided on an adapter. The idea was altering and strengthening the spark sensors so I might understand its response better. Eventually the idea spread to incorporating other sensors."

Ratchet demanded, "Who is he?"

"It's irrelevant. He died before he could finish his work or even write it down." It wasn't entirely accurate but the outcome was the same. I had a fully functioning adapter and overly-sensitive sensor net arrays to help me understand my involuntary responses, but the adapter needed some modifications. Namely the safety issue. My friend found a mech capable of working with me and the other "psycho" friend so we'd learn how to interpret those responses. I got better; the other damaged mech didn't. I swore from the aftermath to never allow myself to slip back onto that path, least I find myself catching up with that murderous fragger. He was the first mech I'd ever killed. "I suppose after that I forced myself to move on by accepting that I wasn't going to truly feel emotions again and trying to find something beneficial with it. Evidently that turned out to be a tactician with a battle simulation in an on-going and violent war."

Silence. My confessions were met with complete and utter silence. I refused to look at Jazz. Every time my gaze drifted his way my spark would pulse erratically (beyond what it was already doing) and I had to move away. Ratchet has no idea just how much he's screwed me over but I'm fairly certain that's not an argument to have right now. Especially since more than once I'm pretty sure I heard ragged hitched air intakes from the direction I refused to acknowledge.
Ratchet spoke first but his normally gruff voice was strained as if his stern words were all projection and no substance. "I'm taking you completely off of duty until we resolve this to Prime's satisfactory."

"I'm afraid I can't let you do that, Ratchet. This is a pre-existing, pre-Autobot, problem that made me the Autobot I am, capable of formalizing and executing plans knowing what they may cause. I do my very best to keep everyone alive and functional but I'm not crippled by the fear. It lets me act precisely and accurately even in dire and gruesome situations. Who else can do that? Besides that, what'll happen if word gets out that I'm being held on medical leave for something I had before joining the Autobots?"

They looked stunned and even Ratchet looked helpless. I felt bad for him, or at least I think I did. His intentions were good, his execution would be awful. I slipped off the berth. "Unless something here changes, I'm going back to my quarters to recharge. I will resume my duties when I wake until either Prime or Primus stops me."

I hastily beat it out of there. They finally knew my honesty, or at least most of it. They didn't know I strangled that murderer until he permanently offlined. They mostly didn't know that my lost friend taught me that giving into the painful void of emotionless existence brought a darkness unsuited for living among law-abiding mechs. They certainly didn't know my uptight emotion-free existence as an Autobot wasn't an empty life but one dedicated to saving them from mechs like me who embraced that side.