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Though the parts of war that were most often considered were the conflicts, be they battles or sieges or air strikes or sabotage runs or anything of the like, the truth was that very large amounts of war were long stretches of nothing but waiting.
Prowl found the stagnation to be intolerable. There were reasons that he had many additional contingencies under development at all times. His processing speed was such that it never took long at all to analyze huge swathes of data and generate workable plans, but the fact of the matter was that it took time to enact said plans. This often left him restless and frustrated, tacnet and CPU both starved for information and calculations to run, while the slow lumbering movement of Autobot troops into position or supplies into place felt protracted beyond any reasonable timeframe.
On the very rare occasions Prowl brought up the thwarted urge to do something productive that drove him to agitation, his coworkers and acquaintances had very little helpful to say in response. Ironhide joked that he used downtime like this to catch up on datawork, which the red mech often let slide by, only bothering with the most important documents. As Prowl was not in the habit of putting off work for later that he could complete as soon as it was assigned, he had no such backlog to go through. Elita suggested spending the time in combat training, but Prowl’s preferred weapon was his acid rifle, and ammunition for it was not infinite nor particularly easy to manufacture. Other than the scheduled times he spent on a firing range to keep his skills within acceptable parameters and to keep familiar with the unique mechanics of his weapon, he could not justify to himself the use of acid pellets or similarly weighted blanks simply to curb his agitation.
Then there were those that tried to steer him away from productivity at all. Ratchet was constantly telling him to “Find a hobby or something. Let your systems actually rest for once rather than running close to redline at all joors.” But Prowl had yet to find a hobby that did not feel like a useless waste of time that could be better spent elsewhere. Music occasionally held mathematical appeal in precise harmonies and resonances, but there had never once been a moment in his functioning where his processor found listening to music engaging enough to keep his thoughts from wandering. He had similar mild appreciation for visual artistry and precision manufacturing, but found himself uninterested in undertaking the tasks himself.
Very rarely, mechs like Red Alert or Perceptor or Smokescreen contacted Prowl with invitations to refuel together, but seldom did he accept, other than in those moments where he had absolutely nothing else to engage his time. He held no ill-will toward them, and did not find their presences inherently unpleasant. It was simply that Prowl seemed to have come online in such a way that he was not coded to seek out companionship for companionship’s sake the way nearly every other mech seemed to. There were so many things in existence that were more important than repeating obvious observations to mech after mech about the state of the weather or the latest interpersonal drama, and he’d much rather be at a console seeking out more data to integrate into tacnet.
It was on one such orn that Prowl found himself with a task queue that stayed stubbornly empty. He wanted to linger in his office in hopes that something - maybe a requisition form requiring a rebalance of supplies over multiple units, or perhaps a breakthrough from Intelligence into current Decepticon encryption which would generate a whole new assortment of information to analyze - would drop into his inbox and give him a worthwhile project to undertake. His notifications remained stubbornly silent, and he ran a slow vent cycle, resisting the urge to shutter his optics in consternation.
Before, when times like these would arise, he would usually seek out Mesothulas and see what the scientist had been working on. But the fact that it had not been much time at all since his last visit halted that plan before it could truly begin. Mesothulas liked to share successful prototypes, something to impress and awe, and often ushered Prowl away from the smaller, quieter steps of innovation. Prowl suspected if he contacted him this soon after retrieving the stasis bullet schematics, Mesothulas would all but shoo him away.
Then, if Mesothulas was not a viable option, his thoughts turned to Jazz, as they often did in recent times. The demon, too, was under comparatively forced inactivity at this lull in the Civil War. While it was true there was always data to steal and one enemy or another to assassinate, there was currently no major gap in intelligence to fill that would not quickly be rendered obsolete by operations already underway. Additionally, Decepticon Command had evidently caught on to the fact that individuals with significant strategic value were being targeted directly, and security around such mechs had been increased, or else they had been brought back behind enemy lines. The risk associated with pursuit of any member of Decepticon Command, or any of the combiner teams, or of a half a dozen other marks was too high for the chances of successful termination at this point, and meant that the only choice was to wait for a more opportune moment to strike.
If Prowl had to guess, he would assume that Jazz was as discontent with nothing to do as Prowl himself was. There was little immediately visible to show it: not in the ease in his posture and movements, not in the grin almost always upon his faceplates, nor in the projected relaxation in his EM field. But Prowl was always watching Jazz closely, and so he noted biolight routines at slightly too steady a rhythm, revealing artificial control of their glow. He tracked when responses were given nanoklicks too soon or too slow compared to data he already had on Jazz’s usual speech patterns, or when a laugh was just slightly too similar to one made previously, betraying both as affectations rather than genuine expressions of emotion. It was clear that Jazz didn’t want to reveal any disquiet, but the signs were there for those who cared to look.
A notification popped up on Prowl’s HUD, flashing in the corner of his optical feed. Fuel levels at 20% of capacity. On automatic, he reached into his subspace, grasping for one of the cubes of high-grade he carried to fuel his power-hungry processor. Almost immediately, he realized he had finished the last cube earlier in the shift, leaving him with nothing on his person at all to replenish his fuel levels with.
He tapped one white digit against the surface of his desk, considering his options. In his hab, he had more of his preferred high-quality energon, and it would not take long at all to portion it out into cubes enough to last him for several orn. But he was reluctant to leave the Autobot Headquarters for so inconsequential a reason. There was, of course, an energon dispensary on base, but it served almost exclusively neutrally inoffensive mid-grade rather than the more thoroughly refined and filtered kind Prowl frequented. Modifications such as tacnet often increased the draw on system resources compared to a forged or standard cold constructed frame, and a more inefficient fuel would necessitate consuming a higher volume than he generally wanted to. It wasn’t far from the end of his shift, he eventually decided, and a few joors on a half-ration of mid-grade would tide him over until he could access the high-grade in his hab.
Somewhat bitterly, he acknowledged that it wasn’t as if there was anything else for him to do right now. Refueling would at least keep him occupied for a few breems before he returned to his empty office.
He passed many more mechs in the hall than normal. It wasn’t unusual for his arrival to signal incoming punishment detail for the rule-breakers on base, and it hadn’t taken long for that knowledge to spread. The average soldier didn’t exactly recoil from his presence, but they went still and watchful, eager to see who would be taking the fall this time. Conspicuously, Prowl caught a nanoklick’s long view of two particular mechs in red and yellow ducking into a room and sliding the door shut behind them quickly, and he made an internal note that Sideswipe and Sunstreaker had likely done something worthy of reprimand, even if it hadn’t made it to his audials just yet. He would check with Red Alert after he fueled, if only to get the low tank notification off of his HUD.
Prowl stepped into the dispensary, intending to retrieve a half-ration and return to his office. A few mechs looked up and around as their proximity sensors or visual feeds registered his presence, but Prowl meant to ignore them until their interest faded again and he could move on unbothered.
A voice calling “Prowler!” in a bright, loud tone that he could not pretend to have missed ruined those plans rather quickly.
“Jazz,” he greeted, doorwings flicking in acknowledgement.
The demon was seated at one edge of the room, leaning around a table with several other mechs. Blaster and his bright red and yellow paint immediately drew the optic, joined by two of his cassettes. They were both felinoids, one painted in gold named Steeljaw, and another in black named Nightstalker. Steeljaw was perched on the seat next to his host, not-at-all-subtly nosing his way toward the cube Blaster was drinking from. Nightstalker watched this progress with amusement obvious in his field and frame language, curled comfortably in an adjacent chair and chin resting along the arm.
On Jazz’s other side was Beachcomber, who looked a bit startled to suddenly be faced with the TiC of the Autobots. While he wasn’t under constant reprimand like pranksters like Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, his tendency to go suddenly AWOL had led Beachcomber to Prowl’s office in disciplinary settings more than once, and it was obvious this was at the forefront in his thoughts.
Jazz himself grinned at Prowl, one dark servo toying with a half-empty cube of energon. “Rare to see you out of your lair,” Jazz teased.
Prowl shot him an exasperated look, despite knowing it was what the demon was angling for. True to form, Jazz’s grin widened, and he tilted his chair back on its hind legs, effortlessly balancing in place. Prowl entertained a nanoklick-long thought of intentionally overbalancing him as he passed, but almost immediately decided it would be beneath a mech of his position, and wouldn’t even phase Jazz at all, anyway. Instead, he turned his back, going through the motions of drawing half a cube from the nearby dispenser without another glyph.
The quiet sound of the chair falling back onto all four legs told him that Jazz had likely gotten up to approach him, though Prowl’s doorwings still could not sense Jazz through the silent-running mods. “Aw, don’t be like that, boss-mech,” Jazz cajoled, leaning up against the wall to one side of the dispenser. “Come sit, have a drink! If you’re outta your office, I know you’ve got nothin’ better to do, anyways.”
Unable to find the way out of this situation in time, Prowl reluctantly followed Jazz back to the table, cradling his half cube of energon in both servos. He was not one to idly socialize, and he felt keenly aware of being out of place here.
“C’mon Blaster,” Jazz said, dropping both elbows on the table from his seat immediately next to Prowl, “You never finished that story! So you picked up the signal…”
With a brief glance at Prowl, biolights briefly flickering uncertainty Blaster said, “Yeah, so, the signal was weird, right?” It didn't seem to take him long to settle back into the rhythm of storytelling. “Couldn’t crack it, didn’t recognize the encryption, didn’t even recognize what coding language it was. It didn’t seem like anything of Sounder’s. After a couple megavorn, you start to get a feel for how the enemy usually works, right?” That got nods from Beachcomber and Jazz both, who had been fighting long enough to recognize individual enemy commanders. Blaster’s position as Communications Officer directly opposing Soundwave would mean an even deeper understanding of his counterpart. “So I sent it on down to Intelligence, seeing what they’d make of it. Everyone was absolutely blowing fuses over it, because if the ‘Cons had codes that were this far out of our league, we were in deep slag.”
Prowl remembered this event. The thought of Decepticon encryption reaching levels of such sophistication that none of the Autobot side even knew how to begin cracking it had generated intense stress through all levels of Command. Red Alert had been near stasis at all times from how hard he had been pushing his systems, and Elita’s personality had vanished entirely into the no-nonsense and efficient SiC in a manner that had had a marked negative effect on Autobot morale as a whole. Prowl himself had been dedicating every spare bit of memory into simulating scenarios with tacnet, determining what paths were possible with the information security gap between the sides of the Civil War suddenly so vast and insurmountable.
“Since nobody had any idea what the signal was, it was decided we should at least go figure out where it was coming from, maybe find who was sending it and get the encryption keys from them directly. And the signal’d been pretty consistently coming from the Southeast, right? So we sent out a scouting squad out past Tyger Pax.” Blaster paused to take a sip from his cube, casually thwarting Steeljaw right as the cassette was about to snatch it from his servo. Nightstalker huffed a short laugh as the gold cyberlion’s ears went back and his optics narrowed in displeasure. A grin twitched at the corner of Blaster’s intake, revealing that he had not been as clueless about the impending theft as he had let on.
“And then the scouts reported back, and it turned out the signal’s point of origin was not, in fact, in the Manganese Mountains, but coming from beyond the atmosphere, and just reflecting toward Iacon.”
“So everyone was starting to get worked up about Decepticons in space, or alien allies for them, or stuff like that. Communications and Reconnaissance had nothing on who could be sending this signal, and people were really starting to panic. And then it just so happened that Cosmos was surface side and not in orbit, and he heard about this message. And he said “Oh, is this about the trinary pulsar two parklicks away?””
Blaster’s expression had gone pained. “Turns out, with the boost to the communications array, we were picking up radio signals from a star system we were passing. All that worry, and it was just space noise that the science teams had already been tracking for well over a vorn at that point.” Blaster threw his helm back in dramatized distress, still smoothly keeping his energon away from Steeljaw despite his apparent inattention. “I’d never felt so stupid in my entire functioning.”
Jazz snickered, raising his own cube to his intake. “Shining example of Autobot cooperation right there, mech,” he laughed. “Doesn’t Cosmos report in to the Recon teams anyway? Thought that was kinda his whole deal.”
“That just makes it worse!” Blaster whined. “It’s my job as Comms Officer to make sure info gets where it’s supposed to. So this breakdown was absolutely on me.”
“Nah, mech,” Beachcomber interjected, blue faceplate earnest. “The whole point is that we work together! No one can handle everything on their own. That’s why we gotta back each other up!”
“Yeah,” Jazz needled, “It takes a whole team for a frag up that stupid!”
Prowl watched, present, and yet separate, as Beachcomber, Blaster, and Jazz dissolved into bickering and mockery and laughter. It was certainly true that mechs could accomplish more when combining their resources and skills than any one could alone. But often that kind of cooperation meant slowing down the decision-making process to a crawl. Prowl had been part of several teams over the course of his functioning, from the enforcers he had first been constructed alongside, to the staff working under Sentinel’s Primacy, to his current position as part of Autobot High Command. More often than not, he found working with others to be a restriction as much as it was a benefit.
He took a measured sip of energon, mid-grade flavor on his glossa strange compared to his usual habits. Unbidden, his thoughts turned to Jazz’s intake interview before High Command, and the way Jazz had mentioned the idea of bringing the rest of his team into the Autobots. Prowl had thus far avoided much discussion or inquiry into why he had not yet done so, but in all likelihood, his time was running out. Tacnet provided several scenarios in which he would be forced to either produce Jazz’s teammates, or else a definitive reason as to why he hadn’t.
So, really, wouldn’t it be better to initiate the summoning before he was coerced into it by circumstance? He was already rather confident that he would not be able to avoid the situation entirely, and surely it was more logical to pull benefit from it wherever he could. Perhaps his cooperation with Jazz’s intentions would reinforce the idea that Prowl was beneficial to keep around. Jazz had had many opportunities at this point to be rid of Prowl if he had wanted to, and Prowl could only interpret his refusal to take advantage as proof that he did not, in fact, desire to. Reemphasizing that sentiment at every opportunity was only the smart thing to do.
If there was another layer beyond the cold logic that wanted to earn Jazz’s trust for its own sake, no one need know.
Prowl immediately turned to the logistics of the situation. He had been stockpiling dark energon at every available opportunity, rather than allowing the risk of a lack of supply when he might need it. He was relatively confident that he had enough for three additional summonings, provided that none were of a particularly large size class. The question would simply be finding the right Primal Vernacular glyphs to guarantee that Jazz’s team were the specific demons summoned, and not any other. That would require Jazz’s cooperation, as Prowl knew nothing about his teammates beyond their species.
Decision made, he drank the remaining mid-grade and rose to his pedes, ready to cross to the recycler to dispose of the empty cube.
The other mechs at the table looked up at his sudden movement, and Jazz let out a little laugh. “Not even a goodbye? That eager to be rid of us?”
“There is a matter which requires my attention,” Prowl stated. He shot a look over a shoulder, meeting the familiar gaze of a blue visor. “Your assistance would be appreciated, in fact.”
“Aw, Prowler,” Jazz began, leaving his own half-empty cube behind where Steeljaw could immediately reach it to swipe it, “Not just gonna avoid a break for yourself, but gonna force me into it too?”
Despite his words, the demon seemed completely at ease as he followed Prowl from the dispensary, without even a backward glance at his companions implying any reluctance. So Prowl said, “You are quite welcome,” and relished the startled, genuine laugh he got in response.
With an almost bouncing stride as he followed Prowl down the hall, Jazz asked, “So what are we up to? Finally got a job for me or somethin’?”
Wryly, Prowl replied, “It is more a job for me than anything else.” Cautiously, he switched to comms, and added, ::It might be prudent to keep things to more private methods of communication, at least until my shift is over.::
Jazz stepped after Prowl into the TiC’s office, his doorwings twitching just slightly in a movement that the Praxian interpreted as interest. ::Alright, mech, you’ve got me hooked,:: Jazz commed. ::Gonna keep me in suspense much longer?::
Prowl settled into his seat at his desk, watching as Jazz cocked a hip strut against the side of the table, crossed his arms, and stared expectantly down at him. Without any further hesitation, Prowl asked, ::How would you describe your teammates?::
The weight and intensity of Jazz’s focus changed at once, and a little of the exaggerated casualness was immediately left behind. ::Why do you wanna know?:: He fired back.
Meeting Jazz’s gaze unflinchingly, Prowl simply stated, ::I need to know how to describe them for their summoning blueprints, don’t I?::
There was a beat as Jazz studied him in silence, before a grin twisted the demon’s intake, and he asked, ::One minion not enough for you, boss-mech?::
::As I recall,:: Prowl said pointedly, ::You were the one who brought them up in front of the officers. I was perfectly content with only one rogue element to attempt to manage.::
The grin widened to bare sharp fangs. ::‘Attempt’ is fraggin’ right, Prowler.:: He grew more thoughtful, and asked, ::You serious about this? Not many summoners bring on three new contracts all at once.::
::Not many that would survive the event, you mean?:: Prowl said, one optical ridge raising. Pushing onward, he elaborated, ::If your team are anywhere approaching your skill level, their assistance will be invaluable. The addition of more mechs would also lend more legitimacy to the informal unit under my command, allowing for more structured support from other parts of the military. More difficult missions would also be possible if multiple of your team collaborated, rather than relying on a single saboteur, no matter how skilled. I have noticed that the combiners have not appealed to you as targets thus far, for example.::
An audial horn flapped minutely to the side in what Prowl read as chagrin. ::’S flattering you thought I could take out five plus spark-bonded mechs at once, but I gotta admit that’s a bit beyond me, yeah.::
::If you are concerned about availability of sacrifice,:: Prowl added, ::I have a moderate stockpile of dark energon that should last for some time. It should not take long to reach my contact to make additional spark extractors, either, if you believe your team can be trusted with the secret of their operation.::
::Trust, huh,:: Jazz mused. ::And you’ll just take my word for it?::
Keeping his expression and EM field neutral, Prowl said, ::If I won’t get another hole in the chassis for it.::
Jazz winced, just slightly, ducking his helm and wrinkling the mesh of his olfactory ridge. Prowl knew it was as close to an apology as he was likely to get, and moved swiftly on. ::There should be enough floorspace beneath the Primal palace for the necessary carvings. I will need to defer to you for the Primal Vernacular identifying glyphs. If the invocation I used for you would be a problem for your teammates, I would need to know as soon as possible, as well.::
Again, there was a pause as the demon studied Prowl for a long moment, helm tilted at a subtle angle to one side. Eventually, Jazz said, ::Sure, why not. Never been on this side of a summoning before.:: He grinned again, inviting and conspiratorial. ::Who knows, it might be fun!::
Prowl thought to himself it was sure to be something, alright.
—————
The cabinet affixed to the wall swung open, letting Jazz and Prowl step through into the abandoned lab beneath the Primal Palace. Jazz ducked inside and immediately crossed to a counter, unloading several containers of dark energon from his subspace. Prowl followed after him, already measuring available floorspace with his optical feed and calculating if there was enough room for their needs. The blueprint from Jazz’s latest summoning provided an easy point of comparison, because it was readily visible toward one side of the room.
Prowl couldn’t help but note the point where claws had slashed through the precise angles, breaking the restricting nature of the circle without the summoner’s express permission. He would not forget that, but he let it fall back into secondary processing rather than dwell on it.
Wasting no time, Prowl retrieved the carving blade, turning to look at Jazz. “Is the general pattern of the blueprint applicable to the other summonings, or need they be uniquely tailored as with the glyphs?”
“Gotta mix it up, yeah,” Jazz confirmed, backplates turned as he arranged the dark energon. “Our skillsets are similar, but not the same, and I know at least one of the three that’d offline me if I didn’t get him his fancyaft high-performance engine. And on top of that, two outta the three are outliers, too.”
Prowl felt tacnet eagerly snap up the new points of information, already incorporating them into his databanks. “Then I must defer to your expertise once more,” he said. He paused, glancing at the knife in his servo, and asked, “Would any problems arise if you were the one to do the carvings yourself?”
Jazz shot a look past one doorwing, turning around and leaning back with both servos braced on the counter behind him. “Sounds like a good way for me to sneak in secret integrated weapons you wouldn’t know about,” he pointed out.
Deciding to cut through the layers of implication and veiled references, Prowl bluntly stated, “If you wanted me dead I would be. At a certain point, refusing to let you use your skills for fear of what you might do with them becomes irrational.”
The faint dull stains of dried energon near the broken circle behind him both proved his point and underscored what would happen if he was wrong. Prowl had committed to his course of action, and the only choice was to see it through.
Deliberately, Prowl turned the blade in his servo, presenting the handle, gesturing for Jazz to take it. He said, “If you would not mind elaborating on the process or answering questions, I would be grateful to learn more.”
Levering himself off of the counter, Jazz took up the knife, seeming unable to help himself as he twirled and flipped it a few times to test the balance. “What do you want to know?”
“How do outlier abilities intersect with a blueprint?” Prowl asked, watching as the first circle began to come into shape with bold, confident strokes. There must not be much need for cross-referencing what angles to carve when the one holding the blade was a demon himself. “Does each ability require a specific circle to allow a demon to access them? Could you grant an outlier ability to a demon that doesn’t normally have one?”
Jazz didn’t look up from his work, but amusement played across his faceplate. “Lotta questions, mech. No big changes like givin' out outliers or turning a tank into a microscope, sorry. And each outlier needs a new ‘print, yeah. I heard of a demon with a sonic outlier, and he’d need a different circle than my teammates. But as an outlier, his circle would also be different than one for a mech forged with sonic capabilities, like, say, Blaster.”
Prowl paused for a nanoklick, and then, overwhelmed with curiosity, he asked, “Is Blaster a demon?”
Jazz laughed outright, pausing his carving to scrub the back of his servo across his faceplate. “No, he’s not. No idea how that’d work with the whole cassette host thing. Demon frames don’t tend to play nice with non-demons all up close and personal like that for long.”
He stood and stretched, flexing and flaring his plating in a rippling wave. “That’s the first one. You wanna bring ‘em in one at a time or all at once?”
The Praxian looked down at the circle, examining the details and comparing it to the one that had summoned Jazz. If he was reading things correctly, there was less emphasis on utility of integrated frame components, and more on direct speed. The circle was also notably smaller than Jazz’s, though whether that indicated size class or the fact that Prowl had deliberately made his circles larger than strictly necessary he did not know. Slotted seamlessly into place were three Primal Vernacular glyphs and associated subglyphs; the first was one copied entirely from Jazz’s circle, reading [hidden/unsensed/unwitnessed]. The other two took a moment longer to identify, matching against the fragments of the ancient language Prowl had in stored memory, and potentially read [enthusiastic/passionate/intense] and [adaptable/resilient/versatile].
He took a moment to consider, and then shook his helm, taking a step back and gesturing Jazz to another patch of open floor. “All at once, I think. If I can avoid repeating the invocation I would prefer to.”
Flashing a cheeky grin, Jazz asked, “Not confident in your pronunciation, Prowler?”
He could not help the defensive hike of his doorwings and automatically onlined his vocalizer to protest in the klicks before he registered that this was the exact reaction the demon had been pushing for. He cast an unimpressed look at the back of the demon’s helm, letting a little pulse of disapproval through his EM field, receiving satisfaction/glee in return.
Prowl turned his focus to the second circle Jazz was carving, studying the shapes as they came into being. If he had guessed correctly, the first blueprint was for the non-outlier, which meant that the last two both would need to be especially unique. The glyph for [hidden/unsensed/unwitnessed] was prominent in this circle - Prowl was sensing a theme - but there were extra layers that he could only interpret as emphasis or amplification that he had not seen in his research into summoning earlier that vorn. Jazz was already incredibly difficult to pick up on most sensor types, including uncommon ones like Praxian doorwings. That must mean this exceptional stealth was part of their outlier ability. Jazz carved the Primal Vernacular identification glyphs last, neatly outlining [refined/composed/poised] and [loyal/devoted/faithful] in the spaces left for them.
“One left,” Jazz muttered, tilting his helm from side to side to stretch his neck cabling. “And of course it’s gotta be the big guy.”
Curious, Prowl asked, “Would it be possible to change the size class of a specific demon with an alteration to the circle?”
Jazz froze in place, biolights stilling from their idle pulsing. He burst all at once into snickers, and choked, “Aw, mech, now you got me wishing I set them all up to come through as minibots or something. Because it’s absolutely possible, but’d feel frelling weird as Pit. Not many contracts’d be worth that.”
“Noted,” Prowl murmured, watching the play of laughter across the demon’s face. He realized his distraction, and turned his attention back to the forming blueprint sharply.
As he expected, the glyphs for [hidden/unsensed/unwitnessed] were almost immediately put into place. The kind of layering that he had noticed for the previous outlier came into shape soon, too, but rather than intensification of meaning, the glyphs were entwined with components that looked like trickery, or subterfuge. For a moment, he thought that this circle would share two of the glyphs with Jazz’s circle, and that [deceptive/sly/manipulative] would be carved next. But instead, the blade carved out the shapes for [practical/sensible/straightforward] which was almost opposite in meaning in Prowl’s linguistic center. Bemused, doorwings twitching, he leaned back, watching as the final glyphs were put in place, [personable/charming/amiable] filling out the remaining gaps in the carving.
Jazz popped back into standing, flipping the knife from one servo to the other and catching it by the flat of the blade. He offered it hilt-first to Prowl, brushing his palms together to free them of metal dust as the Praxian subspaced it once more. “I’ll get the channels filled in,” he said, already moving to the counter with the containers of dark energon. “You brush up on your pronunciation, boss-mech,” he taunted with a sharp-fanged grin.
Prowl did not allow himself to react to the jibe. As was quickly becoming habit, he examined Jazz’s words and actions for hidden layers of meaning, since he knew by now not to believe everything the demon intentionally displayed. After a moment, watching dark servos carefully tip violet fluid into the shallow depressions, he came upon a possible answer. Jazz had insisted he be the one to carry the dark energon from its storage location into this room, and was again making sure he be the one to handle it now. Exposure for such a short amount of time wouldn’t necessarily harm Prowl’s systems, especially when considering the fact that he had carried quantities for much longer for the first summoning in Staniz. But the fact that Jazz was eliminating even that small chance made Prowl feel… something.
He didn’t have long to examine the feeling before Jazz was dropping the much more empty containers of dark energon back on the counter, turning back to Prowl with a grin. “You’re up! Cross my spark I won’t laugh too hard if you frag up the glyphs.”
Feeling slightly self-conscious about doing this with an audience, Prowl accessed the invocation he had used for Jazz’s latest summoning, only slightly altered to reflect multiple demons instead of one. Keeping his voice steady, he began, “I:[summoner/collaborator/ally] summon the demons:[contractors/collaborators/allies] most [befitting/matching/appropriate] to these blueprints. Said demons:[contractors/collaborators/allies] will [attempt/strive/endeavor] to [complete/achieve/enact] any [goal/task/mission] agreed upon by myself:[summoner/collaborator/ally] and said demons:[contractors/collaborators/allies].”
He resisted the urge to point out that he did not stumble over pronunciation of the foreign glyphs even once, knowing it was foolish impulse and nothing more.
If the ignition of one summoning circle was blinding, then three felt as if they might do permanent damage to visual sensors. Prowl shuttered his optics and turned his helm away sharply, only chancing looking again once his temperature sensors reported the dissipation of the heat of the flames. Three masses of mechanical viscera were slowly blooming into being in the center of each circle in the now familiar, if still uncanny, formation of physical frames. The smallest spread into bare sensor nodes and wires, floating unsupported without any strut or protoform around them. Conversely, the middle seemed to only be made of struts at first, gaps where components were missing yawning empty and revealing the sight of the lab wall behind them. The largest form generated from helm downward, an eerily intact faceplate complete with mesh and plating attached to a slow spread of neural cabling and fluid lines downward as neck and chassis slowly appeared.
The summonings did not complete at the same time, despite having been initiated with the same invocation. Against what Prowl might have expected, the largest frame finished first, followed shortly by the smallest, and then the last. The smallest demon, a bot only slightly larger than Jazz’s minibot threat, immediately began to twist and turn in place, examining his frame. His paint, almost entirely black and vibrant gold, fluctuated rapidly through the color spectrum, pausing briefly on majority black and again on an eerie replica of the unpowered nanites of a dead mech. With equal rapidity, energo-knives extended and retracted from the back of the mech’s forearms, followed quickly by extending and retracting claws, and a battlemask clicked into place from the sides of his helm and then almost immediately tucked away again. “Aww, Jazz!” He complained, looking over at the other demon with wide blue optics. “You said secret integrated weapons!”
It took Prowl a moment to process that, but then he immediately turned to Jazz to study his reaction as the implications became clear. This freshly summoned demon referenced a conversation that had happened before he had been made physical, which implied that incorporeal demons had some way of perceiving the world even if they could not interact with it. Prowl already knew this, from Jazz’s very first comment referencing that incorporeal demons already knew Prowl was researching summoning when no physical mech had been aware of it. What was decidedly new information was the nature and specificity of awareness that this demon seemed to have, down to individual glyphs and phrases. Just how much did a demon perceive when they were not physical? What were the limits of this ability?
Jazz grinned wryly back at Prowl’s scrutinizing look and made a little shrugging motion as if to say ‘what can you do?’ but made no excuse or elaboration.
The middle mech, a sleek speedster build in shining white and clear blue, dropped his helm and pinched at his olfactory ridge. “Bumblebee,” he said, accent high Iaconi to the point that he would have sounded at home among the Towers, “you must consider what you say.”
The little yellow and black demon, evidently Bumblebee, paused from where he was flickering through shapeshifting doorwings and sensor panels and cranial horns and blinked up at his teammates, nonplussed. “I thought we were giving Prowl a shot,” he said. “It’s not like he wouldn’t have figured it out eventually!”
The blue speedster exvented heavily, crossing his arms gracefully across his chassis. He looked up at Prowl, the blue of his own optics subtly darker than Bumblebee’s. “Assuming the fool hasn’t put you off of the idea,” he began, “I suppose we will be working together. I am called Mirage.”
Prowl nodded a polite greeting, and replied, “I look forward to it. It seems as though introductions from my side are rather unnecessary.”
The final demon laughed shortly. “I’m Hound, for the record,” he stated, posture at ease and a smile curling his intake. His armor was comparatively thick, primarily in a dark shade of green accented with gray and black. “You sure you know what you signed up for with this lot?”
Prowl was not at all sure. There were so many unknown variables that tacnet was struggling to provide even one potential path forward with the complete lack of data. Rather than say this, Prowl responded, “I will do my best.”
Bumblebee stepped forward, his momentum halted all at once by the boundaries of the circle. He lifted his servos and tapped them in midair, as if touching a physical wall. “Ooh Jazz! Lemme out! I wanna spar! It’s been so long since we’ve both had frames at once!”
Jazz exvented a little laugh, turning to look at Prowl. “You mind, boss-mech?”
Prowl could not help but glance at the claw-marked blueprint where Jazz had broken free under his own power. It was obvious nothing was stopping Bumblebee if he truly wanted out of the circle, which meant that the question was entirely for his benefit. “By all means,” he said, moving forward to the edges of the blueprints to begin the process of releasing the demons without altering the carvings.
Bumblebee erupted forward the instant he was free, almost bodily tackling Jazz back against the counter in his excitement. “Where’s a good place?” he demanded, looking around as if the lab would suddenly expand into a training room. “I know it can’t be here or we might damage the circles.”
Prowl watched Jazz corral the yellow mech into a more reasonable level of energy as he released the other two demons from their circles. Hound rolled his shoulders and tilted his helm as if a physical weight had been lifted, and let out a little satisfied exvent. “We’re not gonna get anything done until Bee wears himself out,” he said to Prowl, almost apologetically. “Hopefully you’ve got time to kill.”
Mirage scowled, looking put off by the diversion. “You say that as if anything will get done even when Bumblebee finally exhausts the energy of a fresh summoning. Jazz likes enabling him too much. Bee’s impossible for anyone to handle.” He cast a sharp optic toward Prowl, unsubtly taking his measure from helm to pedes. “I’m not sure you have the right temperament to keep up with this group.”
Carefully, Prowl said, “I am open to any suggestions you might have.”
Mirage regarded him coolly for a moment, EM field revealing a small flare of doubt. “We’ll see, I’m sure,” he replied.
As he stepped out of the room, following two demons laughing and shoving at one another, two more demons close behind him, Prowl couldn’t help but think that things had swung wildly out of his control.
At least it was certain to be anything but boring.