Lamb

The waves, so grand and proud as they rise on their hunches, roar in his ears. They lunge for the cliff, determined to break the rock and sediment down to its most base level before bursting apart against something so permanent. Yet they try again, and again, and again, wave after wave, each biting and clawing at the cliff's edge before meeting their violent and self-inflicted end. Nezha stands witness to it all, watching each watery soldier rise and fall and feeling their deaths grace his body from where he stands on the edge of the world.

The cliff stands strong, but Nezha knows that the true winner of this millenia-long war will be the sea. Because with each failure, with each roaring demise, the waves reclaim the scintilla of the earth. With time, the force from which this cliff was carved from will be its end. And even after, the hunger and anger of the water will not be sated until it reclaims every bit of land that is rightfully the seas. The violence has no end, even when there is no longer anything to conquer. The water is a starved and craved thing, begging desperately for its gaping yearning to be fulfilled.

Nezha himself has been stripped down to his base. Scraped raw and gutted, leaving his entrails in a neat row behind him. No Wheels of Fire, no Armillary Sash, and no armor. His spear is stabbed into the ground on his right, having served its purpose as a crutch to allow him to hobble his way up here, too weak to make it on his own.

The care he holds for his spear is not diminished by his unsavory treatment of the weapon. Nezha is aware, however unaccepting, that his love for his spear and other weaponry comes from a place of nostalgia within him. The meaning and memories attached to his objects, thrust upon them by Nezha's own longing and denial, is the sole reason he cradles them so close. He does not value them based on their usefulness–which makes his stomach turn–nor their heavenly flare–which withers something in him in order for a larger, more obvious part of him to preen–but rather on how they make him feel. The acceptance of this fact is what allows him to send his sash away and cast his wheels aside and throw his spear to the crumbling dirt. Because now, in this moment, he does not wish to dwell on anything tangible. He does not want to hold physical reminders of his inner workings and how they rot under his scrutiny.

The only thing he holds is his gore, feeling the red and warm blood soak his hand and stream through the crease of his palm. It flows from him; his own sea, unending and unyielding, even as his pseudo organs breathe outside of his skin and his roots wind through him, broken and wailing within.

He can not hope to hold the wound closed. The idea had occurred to him on his way here, but after feeling his small intestine slip away and what might've been a kidney, he quickly thought screw this and gave up holding himself together with the sort of annoyed exasperation only a god could have.

Petals flow from him as easily as his blood, pink and innocent as they fall around him. What had escaped his wound was surrounded by these petals–the only beauty he had left–and quickly reclaimed, seemingly dissolving into the ground in a flurry of flora to leave only blood behind. His roots, meanwhile, attempt to stitch him back together, slow and patient in a way he never was, in a way he is trying to be. He breathes, feeling his bare chest rise as his lungs fill with air they can't use, supplying oxygen to blood he doesn't have. In, out, in, out.

The mist mixes with his blood, providing gentle sensations around the large gash spanding from the top of his stem ribs to his hip. It's like being peppered with barely-there kisses. It's like being cleansed; like being dipped in water and rising cleaner somehow. Like the first gulp of air after drowning.

The sea, in its death, tries to make Nezha's own gentle. Out of love or camaraderie, he does not wish to know. If he did, he would never be able to return. Not to anything, not to anyone. He would throw himself off this cliff and let his body be smashed again and again against its sharp edge, torn to shreds and restitched like a disposable doll, feeling each shove of a wave as a hug, each crack of his skull as a hand running through his hair. And he would be content. Happiness does not come easy, but contentment? It is a feeling that Nezha starves for, painfully aware of all he lacks and hunting for something to lay his greed to rest. Contentment, he decides, right now as he bleeds and is cleansed, is what has killed him, and will continue doing so, so long as he exists.

Nezha smiles. The setting sun forces his eyes to crinkle, the lazy clouds doing nothing to shield him from the harsh golden rays. A salty breeze gently ruffles his hair, reminding him of times long gone, of fingers playfully tugging at his ribbons and laughing as they come undone and smelling of fish from spending so long by the sea.

That same laughter is echoed back at him in the harsh crash of the waves. From the corner of his eyes, just inside his periphery view, he sees blue. And not the dark imposing blue of the sea, or the bright and deceiving sky, but something calmer, something so benign that just the small smudge of it is enough to set fire to the blooming flower in his empty chest.

And technically, it is not his peripheral vision. If he were stronger, he would acknowledge the pair of eyes that can take in that blue fully and put a face to the color. But he is hurt, and he is gutted, and he can take no more than the sea and the cliff and the hands he imagines.

So the blue blurr remains a blue blurr. A blue blur swimming in white with elegant hands running down the handle of Nezha's spear. It approaches, and Nezha doesn't take his eyes off the horizon.

He doesn't know how, but he knows that the blue opens its mouth, and he knows that words fall out.

Its voice is one with the waves, leaving Nezha to strain his ears to pick out the words from the crashing noise of their destruction. When he finally hears them, the blue is smiling.

“What are you thinking about, Nata?”

Words that are a freezing balm to Nezha's burning being. Words that let his eyes drift close and sway. That lets him pretend the wetness surrounding his eyes is not his own tears. He is going to die. He is going to die, because for Nezha, there has never been a time where he will not. But for this specifically, he hears the familiar call of death because for the first time in a long, long time, he feels content.

His lips form the beginnings of a word, the shape of a consonant on his tongue, before he collapses.

He falls on his back, eyes still closed, and all he can think is you. The answer to a question never asked. The answer to nearly everything there ever was.

On a cliff on some unnamed shore, the Third Lotus Prince bleeds; subsequently, he dies.

—

Again, no real story beyond Nezha getting injured and dying. A headcanon of mine is since Nezha was once human and reincarnated into an immortal, he still has the ability to "die" if injured enough, but his body heals eventually and he's "reborn".

He will come back, but I imagine any death, no matter how many times, is still significant. Especially for Nezha, who I feel may want to hold onto some sense of humanity.

Ao Bing appearance at the end! Something about being haunted, something about how death even for a god brings things back. Especially when one is happy; joy and grief are so very similar.

A lot of ocean talk. Nezha is inexplicably connected to the ocean in a fundamental way for me, mostly against his will. It brings such comfort along with sorrow.

Cybertronions are a form of techno-organic life, leading to a very interesting and complex physiology. Processors are understood to be their brain where central commands for the body take place, just like humans. However, their brain is very reminiscent of a big complex and advanced computer. While they can have specific parts (possibly like a CPU), a neural net is required to transfer information from section to section of the processor–or: from part to part. These messages are what controls the body, sending commands for voluntary movement and keeping up with involuntary functions. The human brain operates much in the same way, and what do both humans and Cybertronions HAVE to have in common? Electricity! The “messages” that the human brain sends is called “electrical signaling”, because electricity (energy) is required for the active work that involves sending signals all throughout the body. Electricity travels through neurons and cells and synapses to get where they need to get (not in that order) to do what they need to do. Cybertronions, by some logic, operate much in the same way. Electric signals in their processors are what carries messages and what makes their frames move.

So with this vague comparison, what causes seizures and/or crashes?

Seizures in the human body can be caused by many things, but it all falls back on temporary abnormal electric activities in the brain. These abnormal sessions can happen due to heat, genetics, brain defects, trauma to the brain, etc. Those who suffer from frequent and chronic seizures are diagnosed with epilepsy, and in some cases they are able to take medications to prevent future seizures. Those with epilepsy can even have certain triggers, a well-known one being flashing lights. Now, since we know electric signals are what makes the body move and operate, when the electricity goes wacky, so does the body. This is where you get your different kinds of seizures: different parts of the brain control different parts of the body, and abnormal electrical activity can affect different parts of the brain. There are many types of seizures (focal, tonic, absence, etc.) depending on where in the brain the seizure originates from. These different seizures have different symptoms, such as loss of consciousness, jerking or twitching of extremities, loss of bodily control, collapsing, and confusion.

Now, what makes a Cybertronion crash? What is a crash? The way I see it, crashes tend to stem from extreme or forceful processor use, where the processor becomes overwhelmed and either shuts itself down or loses control completely, knocking the Cybertronion into unconsciousness. The most common use of the word “crash” that I have seen is with Prowl (a favorite of mine) who (in fanon and canon (to an extent)) possesses an advanced processor capable of digesting and applying information at advanced speeds and power. When Prowl pushes his limits, he crashes. These crashes (again, abnormal electrical activity) is either caused by:

1. Too much conflicting information at a time

2. Emotional stress contradicting logical conclusions

3. Stress on the processor in general, typically in extreme or confusing situations where the processor is used to much

Briefly, I compared a processor to a computer. This still stands. Electrical signals jump from “computer” part to part (the “techno” in techno-organic”), allowing for thoughts and processing and everything else their processors do (this fandom is so creative from HUDs to comms to being able to plug into computer and basically become one, I can't hope to list it all). So to help with my logic, we have to look at what causes a computer to crash. Viruses, faulty hardware, internal conflicts, and overclocking are all examples of why a computer crashes. In a Cybertronion with both computer-adjacent parts and electrical signaling, a crash stems from a combination of human and computer triggers. “Faulty hardware” can be matched with “genetics”, something a Cybertronion would be born with in their processor that doesn't function properly. “Virus” can be a, well, virus, and internal conflicts/overclocking is what we would refer to as the whole conflicting information and pushing the processor to its limits. This malfunction, in ANY of these ways (and many more ways) all leads to a disruption in electrical activity, therefore a disruption in electrical signals throughout the different components of the processor, and unable to keep up, the processor crashes.

Crashes by this logic mean that a Cybertronion loses certain functions depending on where in the processor the crash originates from. Commonly, in fanon media, a crash always results in a loss of consciousness that the Cybertronion either naturally wakes from or has to be medically pulled from. This makes sense, because when a computer crashes, sometimes it shuts down completely in a last-ditch effort to save itself. For humans, when you pass out during a seizure, the brain has lost the ability to function properly. So, the brain doesn't necessarily shut itself down, but is forced out of commission. Either way, consciousness is lost, and depending on the severity of the crash, I think the loss of consciousness from a Cybertronion crashing can be from either: the processor recognizing a fatal error, or it being too late and it essentially fries itself momentarily.

Another symptom of both a computer crashing and a human having a seizure is something called an aura, which is something that I think at times is accidently shown in fanon (or on purpose; I think it's cool). An aura in a seizure is a sign that a person is about to experience a seizure, such as a sudden nauseating feeling or deja vu. An aura for a computer can be when your mouse suddenly stops working or everything across your screen freezes at once, which usually means your computer is about to crap out on you (crash). A Cybertronion aura can be error messages, a gut feeling like humans experience, visually seeing the impending crash (love when this is included in fanon media), or feeling certain parts of their processor begin to freeze up.

As far as the symptoms while actively crashing, I think it's all pretty synonymous to seizures. Locking up and loss of control, verbal mumbling, and honestly everything else depending on where in the processor the seizure comes from.

But becoming post-ictal, what does that look like? Post-ictal describes the state immediately after a seizure when people start to come out of it. Post-ictal looks different for everyone depending on a lot of factors, but common states include feeling tired, confused, and disoriented. Symptoms include headaches, dizziness, slight memory alteration (complete or partial temporary/permanent memory loss), speech difficulties, and altered behaviors. Some become unreasonably angry, some cry, and some are entirely unaffected besides a headache. Post-ictal is the brain attempting to reorient itself and recover. Post-ictal for a crash can be very similar, with the same symptoms.

From what I've read and seen, every Cybertronion crash results in a loss of consciousness. Awakening from that loss varies widely, which is exactly what post-ictal is like. However, along with reorienting itself and recovering, I believe that a processor had to boot up as well and restart certain systems, which a brain does not have to do. Because of this, the processor with all its complexities may take longer than a brain to recover, and need more medical aid. Which is why, again, crashes appear as medical emergencies.

Thank you for reading my yapping, everything may not be entirely accurate be warned! I am neither a Healthcare professional (yet. Wish me luck) or epileptic, so if anything is wrong feel free to correct me! If you're interested in learning more, here's two links for seizures! I encourage everyone to understand at least the basics of seizure first-aid, cause many people have seizures and there might be the opportunity to help! (Also with this, you can get certified online for seizures and learn a lot, and knowing the basics of CPR is also another wonderful thing to know that you can learn about online!)

Epilepsy Foundation:

More info:

Fic that describes the emergency care that goes into treating a seizure in what was to me personally a fascinating way:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/60822427/chapters/155349826#workskin

I also like how this one describes crashes:

Prowl makes his way across the street, stepping lightly over the rubble and debris in his path. Around him, the city lies in devastation. Monuments toppled over by the march of heavy pedes–markets drowned in dull energon and whispering pleas. Buildings had been blown apart and rebuilt for the purpose of shelters and prisons, even makeshift hospitals now that the city's original had been converted to a militaristic airbase. Now that nearly everything has been converted–except for what can not be reached.

The building stands, though it's hardly noticeable. Its brothers and sisters born of the same neighborhood lay crumpled around and beside it, leaning against the lone building for precarious support so as to not collapse. Prowl grimaces at the instability of the structures, assessing the damage and making a note to have it demolished come morning to ensure that no preventable accidents occur. Even more so given how a mech can hardly see in this sector of the city, every streetlight either flickering pathetically or burst from the overexertion of powering a war fleet.

The night swallows everything it can reach, making the broken glass of windows and jagged edges of collapsed walls take on monstrous shapes that crawl and morph at every glance. Prowl does not let it intimidate him. He knows, reasonably, that the glass is just glass and that the walls are just bent and damaged metal. No amount of sinister shapes or threatening silhouettes can make his spark drop or processor panic. He is centered. He is set in reality. He walks towards the shadows with the confidence of a mech who knows of what he can and can not touch. And anyways, it is not completely dark.

Light seeps from the standing building, leaking from the stained glass windows and cracked doorway to streak across the street. Narrow columns of it paint Prowls pedes in a soft blue hue as he continues on, using the gashes of light and melodies as arrows towards his target.

He is, he is not lured. Lured implies a loss of control, or at the very least that Prowl is drawn by a metaphysical force, or even by his own desperate need. He does not need this, nor is he coming here for some inexplicable reason. He simply wishes to speak with Jazz.

To hear him. To see him. To ensure that the mechs mission had been a success, and that no substantial damage had been obtained by the Head of Spec Ops.

The building, though standing strong, is clearly damaged. The closer Prowl gets the more he can make out the dents and deep gashes in the walls, and he can now see that the doors are not cracked open on purpose, but rather the track that one of the doors was meant to slide along is bent out of shape. Even the stairs are covered in metal shavings that cling to the bottom of his pedes as he begins the climb.

The stairs are short, but steep, with hardly any room to properly step. The guardrails are crumbling from blaster shots and much too weak to support any weight, leaving Prowl to raise his arms awkwardly in an attempt to steady himself with every perilous step.

The amount of effort he is going through for a mech who didn’t even bother to bring him the mission report, much less even say hi after being gone for nearly three quartex’s is almost ridiculous. But this is Prowl's own will. This is his own reasoning, and he must see it through.

He is not hurt that Jazz walked right past him when the ship landed. He is not upset at Jazz for avoiding everyone on base to disappear into the freshly conquered city, leaving curious mechs and confused friends in his wake. Jazz is a mystery, but a mystery with reason. He is annoyed by the gaggle of mechs who thought that Prowl had the answer to Jazz's whereabouts–even more annoyed at the fact that he didn’t.

He had to get the aid of Blaster just to be pointed in the right direction, and even then he was left wandering for 13 breems and 57 kliks until he heard…well, Jazz. That is what brought him here. Not longing or hope or whatever it was that Blaster started lamenting about–he just needed mechs to leave him alone. And once he knows where Jazz is, they’ll leave him alone.

He slips and desperately begins flapping his doorwings and arms to try and regain some sort of balance, but ultimately fails and falls against the door. He hadn’t even realized it was there until he heard the loud clang from landing heavily against it, the door shaking rather worryingly beneath him for a few kliks before holding steady.

He has to take a moment to reorient himself before realizing that the melodies have stopped. He mentally scolds himself for being so reckless–he can only hope that he didn’t scare Jazz off, or at the very least, that he's not being perceived as a threat.

Prowl is, unfortunately, well aware of Jazz’s mentality and behaviors fresh off of a deep operation, and loathes having to deal with the spy hyped up and feeling particularly volatile. The sudden avoidance, isolation, and lack of medical attention raises alarms in Prowl's processor as to the state he’s going to find Jazz in, and how difficult it's going to be to wrangle him to Ratchet's door.

Prowl's tacnet begins providing a plan of action upon entering the building, pulling in previous experience and various knowledge from a data folder dedicated to Jazz, and all the incidents associated with him. He just hopes that this time he can get away with all his paint intact. Apparently, other mechs never have problems with Jazz tackling them and clinging in various forms, but Prowl's success rate in wrangling Jazz are substantial compared to others, so he counts Jazz's willingness to be held as a positive. And if Prowl indulges, just slightly, in the weight of another in his arms, in the weight of Jazz, he will let that proverbial beast rest until he finds the strength to kill it.

Without the melodies the street is now deathly silent. This whole sector of the city had been abandoned in favor of the refugee camp closer to the center, harboring the few survivors of the new occupation. How Jazz even found his way here is a wonder, and how he even knew what this building is is a question that Prowl is admittedly too afraid to ask.

The door screams as he forces it open. The sound of it rakes across his sensors, making his doorwings shutter and faceplate scrunch in discomfort. It slides open with minimal effort, but the sound of it–it's nearly as bad as two mechs screaming as they clash together, tearing at each other with claws and teeth and whatever else can cause damage. He only slides the door enough to squeeze in, and is grateful when the noise stops.

Prowl vents in deep, gathers all he has control over in the shell of his frame, and steps into the chapel.

That blue light bathes him the moment it can, turning his bright white the color of the sky and muting his black detailing. It's a pleasant sensation on his optics, and it only takes a small readjustment to see the illuminated interior of the building compared to the darkness outside.

Places of worship are not familiar to Prowl. When he came online, there was a brief crash course programmed in his processor to understand the basics of Cybertronian religion, and the practices it involves. But it all seemed rather frivolous to him. Spending vorns worshipping something that never answered or spoke except through the supposed “chosen” Prime, through which history showed to not be at all trustworthy or even true. There is little to no proven evidence in the belief, and much of it is based upon a Cybertronian spark-deep instinct. The common thought is that all Cybertronians, no matter the build or purpose, are Primus’ creation, and that he watches over all.

If Primus were to exist, Prowl would not be of his servo. He did not come online in a field of sparks, nor was he gently coaxed into his frame by a smith. He was forced into operation by some machine, with his artificial spark thawed and crammed into a mockery of a frame. And that, the religion decided, was rather distasteful. And if Prowl himself is distasteful in the eyes of Primus, then he saw no point in begging for forgiveness in the form of shallow prayers. If his very being is a sin–processor and frame alike–then no forgiveness would ever be granted. It would be a waste of his time.

It's with this belief that Prowl enters the church, with his doorwings raised high and frame on full alert. He logs every detail he can in case of an incident report that he quietly keeps to himself. The cracked wall to his left; the luminescent light fixtures that quietly hum with the rattling of a backup generator.

And Jazz. Standing towards the front of the room on the right, next to the pit seating where he was supposedly sitting before Prowl walked in. But now he's standing, his frame minutely bent in a position to launch an attack with all the potential force of a charged up turbofox just waiting for the chance to lunge at its prey.

Prowl tries his very hardest not to feel like prey. It is rather hard when Jazz activates his plasma blade in a casual yet subtly offensive grip; the slight shift in weight to get better leverage against the floor; the slight shifting of plating to better hide reveal vital lines (an obvious baiting tactic, or perhaps a sign of recognition). Even his visor is dim. A muted blue that only shows when he's deep in concentration accompanied by a bright line across the center to indicate the activation of his honestly excessive stealth mods. Jazz is tracking him. Logging his every move for a potential threat, or deciding the most efficient way of snuffing Prowls spark.

Prowl takes a step forward. Jazz tilts his helm, brandishing his audial horns and further hiding his face in shadow. Prowl freezes.

The glare Jazz pins him with is oppressive. A physical weight against Prowls frame, heavy and suffocating. It presses on him, on every part of him he knows Jazz can see, even feeling when Jazz's focus shifts from his empty servos to the blaster attached to his hip.

Prowl allows for his doorwings to dip low on his back and holds them there. Whatever battle protocol running rampant through Jazz's processor seems to notice and approve, the spy lifting his helm again to stare at him with his full faceplate.

“What are ya doin’, Prowl?”

Jazz's voice is smooth and low, rippling across Prowl's lowered wings by the echoes the concave room provides. Prowl tests his better judgement, going directly against his tacnet one step at a time. “I came to ask you the same.”

Jazz huffs, and his lips are drawn into the mockery of a small, soft smile. “Found some smooth music. I can't just leave, can I?”

No. No, you can not. But Jazz already knows this. It's why he's smiling with the weight of sorrow–why his speech pattern is so vague and quizzical in evaluating Prowl. As he watches Prowl get closer, as he allows for Prowl to stand in front of him, looking down at this mech who seems to be a living part of this building.

Standing so still and so silent among the deterioration of the church, like the statues of soldiers long past in the Primal Basilica. Rows and rows of metal far beyond their age, guarding over something long since defiled.

Prowl wants to relieve him of it. To take him from this building so that he can just be Jazz, and not some wounded soldier crawling back to the one thing they know. A thing in destruction marveling at something already ruined and worshipping its destroyed beauty.

Prowl gets close enough to touch, to run a servo down the smooth metal of Jazz’s arm to his fist clenched over the blade. Jazz only stares at him, holding visual contact as Prowl slowly dislodges his fingers and intertwines their servos, not jumping at the sharp clatter of the deactivated blade hitting the ground.

It echoes, as does everything here, bouncing and slicing at his audials as if craving revenge. But Jazz sighs with it, and that violent line across his visor dissipates as his shoulders slump, and Prowl thinks that his spark is dissipating as well.

And Jazz smiles. A real one, genuine as he looks at Prowl and squeezes his servo.

His visor brightens gradually, until that blue light is bathing Prowl, too. “I knew it was you.”

His tacnet lags, just slightly, before Prowl pushes it back. “How?”

Jazz chuckles, though Prowl suspects that there's no real humor behind it. “They don't bother sendin’ anyone else these days. And you're…”

Prowl quirks an eyebrow ridge when Jazz shifts his helm ever so slightly to glance at Prowl's chassis, but it's such a quick motion that Prowl can debate whether it was even there, even as Jazz raises his free arm to sit over Prowl's shoulder.

“I just knew.”

Prowl can only hum, choosing to not dig as he feels the weight of Jazz’s arm against him and the warmth of his servo in Prowl's own. Here. With him. And, thankfully, with minimal damage. Prowl can see the minor scuff marks across Jazz's plating, but nothing leaking or sparking to cause concern.

Still, to satisfy the selfish, disgusting part of him, he draws his arms up and releases Jazz’s servo.

Jazz properly offlines his visor when Prowl cups his cheeks. He even leans into it, his whole frame gradually relaxing as Prowl runs his fingers over his faceplate and helm, taking his time in his inspection. He thumbs across Jazz's nose ridge and down towards his intake, pulling at his lips and making sure there was no damage there. He dips into the soft mesh just below Jazz’s visor, taking care to not scratch the resistant glass. The slopes of Jazz’s faceplate are meticulously logged in Prowl’s processor, from the angle of his primary vents to the slight scratches on the ridges of his cheeks.

There are no protests, so Prowl continues, tilting Jazz’s helm from side to side and gently squeezing the plating around it, gauging for a reaction of any sort. He gets nothing beyond a deep sound emanating from Jazz’s vocalizer, subtly rumbling through the mech and into Prowl's finger tips. He lets his servos roam, feeling the texture and shape of Jazz’s armor, feeding it to his buzzing tacnet. He makes sure not to touch the audial horns as he ventures over the top of Jazz’s helm, not minding how Jazz tips forwards until he rests against Prowl’s shoulder.

He uses touch to guide him, feeling the back of Jazz’s helm in a silent search. He feels–he feels Jazz’s steady vents against his neck, the way his spark chamber gently thrums alongside Prowl's own. How their frames work together, solid and sure in their mechanical life. The way Jazz sags as Prowl reaches for the port at the base of his neck, how he shifts in a subtle nod when Prowl cants his doorwings in question.

Processor and tacnet alike rejoice at the opportunity to wrap itself around the spy's mind, treading across tertiary systems and suites with such delicacy it is nearly impossible to discern his own presence from Jazz’s. Jazz opens with something that gives the word beauty a new meaning, folding apart like the petals of a holoflower in swathes of melting hues and incoherent data. Prowl relishes in it, taking in everything he's allowed and lavishing what is tangible with his utmost attention.

The initial data influx is utterly meaningless, just something that the processor regurgitates upon the initial connection as a reflex. Prowl grasps at it near immediately, letting the tacnet run through it before moving on. Any defenses that were once active are already downed before Prowl can even pass through, allowing him easy access to what Jazz holds near the surface of his processor.

He plucks at strings of data with all the expertise of a cellist; with all the attention and virtuosity of a mech who has been playing this particular instrument for the past millennium. He knows this processor intimately, more than he probably should, seeing the intricacies and miniscule organizations and acknowledging each of them in their contribution to the mech he holds. So he knows that the few firewalls which he encounters are disturbingly weak, and that the processes behind them are damaged. Nothing critical, thankfully, but still something that the tacnet latches to, trying to help repair it before Prowl disconnects.

Without his knowledge, an internal comm link is established. What's even more startling is the realization that he is one who established it, and that it's his worry that is making his voice quiet as he asks, ::What happened?::

Jazz doesn’t move against him, but pushes gently against Prowl's presence in his own processor, urging him to move on. ::Nothin’ to get in a twist about. S’all surface level slag, itt’ll patch up on its own.::

Jazz is right. Already, Prowl can sense the processor restoration systems slowly eating away at the damage, shoving his own foreign tacnet around and out of the way. Even so, Prowl is reluctant to just let it be. But Jazz pushes, and Prowl relents, moving on to materials held deeper in the processor.

Vague feelings and memories begin to register. How Jazz can smell the Autobot camp on Prowls plating, and how that amuses him. He vents deeper on purpose, just so he can enjoy the scent and commit it to memory. Prowl does not comment on it, not when he has spent so long memorizing every part of Jazz that is tangible and agonizing over the things he will never get the grace of touching. And not because they are out of his reach; no, the things he craves most are held just over his helm, taunting him, daring him to reach up with dirty servos and beg to hold what is clean. And each time it's offered, each time it's just within his grasp, he gets closer and closer to falling to his knees and offering all he has to be cleansed.

That is why he came here to this church that sits among death: to ensure that the Head of Spec Ops is able to function, get his damned mission report, and prove to himself that he still has the strength to turn away from everything, to not throw all his dirt and sickness to someone so undeserving.

There are hundreds (Not literally, of course. If he truly wanted to, he could stand here for cycles counting each of Jazz’s memorization processes and get a definitive number. He tells himself that the thought isn’t tempting, that the thought of losing himself within Jazz isn't the most wonderful idea.) of memory banks being evaluated and filed simultaneously, either being dragged to form conscious trees or being tucked away for later use. Prowl doesn’t disturb anything–almost can’t with how easily assimilated he is–but he does lightly pull at the files, easily identifying the ones from Jazz’s most recent excursion. His tacnet flags them immediately, eager to take them apart and digest all the information they can provide. Prowl can admit that he is very curious to see what happened, and even more so to witness a first hand account. But before he can open the file, both processor and servo lightly push him away.

The sudden physical contact nearly shocks Prowl out of Jazz’s helm entirely. He cycles his optics rapidly, trying to pull himself from data trees and files in order to refocus on the world around them.

Jazz has a servo over Prowl's own where he’s connected to the port. “Don’t.” He whispers, pulling gently at the connection, willing Prowl to back out of his processor. “Don’t.”

And because Prowl is competent enough to know the privilege he holds, the amount of trust that Jazz has gifted him, he complies.

He feels Jazz stitch himself back up as Prowl recedes, firing up damaged firewalls and reinstating defenses. The operation is perfect, something that has been done numerous times, so when Prowl exits the processor entirely it is not as though he was torn, but rather gently set back on his pedes.

His pedes which are steeped in blue, standing in a puddle as it floods from his frame, overtaking everything around him and turning it to the deepest reaches of an ocean. The panel on his wrist slides closed without a noise, but the feeling of it snapping shut claws across his arm, causing him to hold onto Jazz a little tighter–pull him that much closer to his frame.

For a klik, a single klik that has his tacnet panicking, all he can see is blue. But it fades as he adjusts, and suddenly he can make out shapes from the color. The sunken pews, the altar just in front of him, and the various belongings scattered about from mechs who once took shelter here. He can see them, the shapes of them, huddled here while their world burned on the outside, shaking and praying as they tried not to melt under the heat of red–

Red that drips from the high stained glass windows decorating the wall and the hole in the ceiling, dripping onto him, burning him, but not Jazz, who is safe now. No, not in his arms, not.

Prowl shakes his helm. The red crawls back to whence it came, and the pseudo burning sensation recedes with it. Foolish information creeps. Melting information upon a disconnection that leads to odd visual hallucinations, confusing as much as it is disorienting. He wonders briefly how much of that was his own processor and what can be attributed to Jazz's own damaged psyche, then promptly decides that it doesn't matter. Either one, the damage is still the same, and Prowl would be a fool to believe otherwise.

He hums, feeling the sound bubble from his vocalizer in odd pops. “So your processor is compromised and you run to…” The luminescent lights above, the altar which looms, mechs bent, helms touching the floor, delirious. “...a church.”

Jazz chuckles and presses even closer still, lips brushing against the plating of Prowls neck as he speaks. “Primus got you sweatin’?”

Their voices are low from being so close, needing nothing more than a whisper to hear. But their tones, the volume in which they speak, is too close to that thing that Prowl told himself he won't do, that he swears he will not partake in. So he scoffs louder than necessary and wills the odd tingling sensation beneath his plating to go away on its own accord.

“Hardly,” he says, and gently pushes Jazz back. Jazz falls away easily, far enough to where Prowl can look in his visor again. Jazz offers a small smile and an unreadable look before slipping out of his hold.

Prowl is shocked momentarily at the sudden loss, arms outstretched stupidly like a lost newforge. He is suddenly far too cold, far too empty, and he realizes far too quickly how exposed he has become in the matter of breems.

Jazz, either as cruel as forgiveness or as merciful as forgetting, continues to walk away, swaying in time with the shuttering hum of emergency lights. His frame captures the light as Prowl's own does, their similar color palates blending seamlessly into the building, making his movements smoother than they had any right to be. Prowl fumbles within his own frame, vocalizer quietly hissing with interrupted commands and arms jerking awkwardly towards his chassis.