jabberish

So Prowl's a Decepticon, Jazz captured him semi-accidentally on a flirtation-heavy action romp, Prowl mauled his own code to thwart interrogation. Go!

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Prowl recognizes the gait, and knows that it is because he is being allowed to. It may be a courtesy (13%), a downplaying of ability (21%), but it is more likely a deliberate intimidation (46%), allowing Prowl to know and anticipate something of what—who—is coming for him. Or, it may be (f-t%) that Jazz simply does not see any reason to obscure his identity as he approaches. He is humming, quietly, lowly.

With a few seconds to consider, Prowl decides it is worthwhile to stand, despite the ache of his joints and the unsteady feeling. He moves carefully, to keep balanced through the dizziness, and to avoid provoking a reaction as Jazz strolls into view on the other side of the bars.

Jazz pauses. "Heya Prowler." He smiles, raises a hand. "Can I come in?"

Prowl dips his wings and looks down without entirely looking away. "I cannot stop you."

Jazz makes a sound and an expression that Prowl cannot read but expects (83%) is meant to be friendly.

"Guess you can’t," he says with a shrug. He toys with the control pad outside, and a bar flickers down long enough for him to step through the momentary gap.

Jazz hums again, a shorter, tuneless sound that buzzes against Prowl's sensors as Jazz nods and glances around his cell, considering.

Prowl wants to shift his wings, but he does not want to lose his balance, or draw attention. He does not know why Jazz is here. There is nothing tactically worthwhile he can tell Jazz. He (*nf{*%) should wait for Jazz to offer more suggestion of why he is here. "I—" Prowl says, causing Jazz to look up from the corner he is going towards. Prowl does not look away, but still has no idea what Jazz wants. "I cannot provide tactical information."

"I know." Jazz grimaces and, wincing, turns back to the corner, where he grabs the folding chair from its hook. He snaps it open at the unoccupied side of Prowl's small table and sits heavily with a showy gust of vents. "Ratch is fragged at me about that."

Prowl feels his sparkrate hitch and then resolve to a higher, sharper frequency. He did not aim to get Jazz in trouble but it was hardly an unpredictable outcome and he does not (yet) regret it. He refuses to regret it, even if he will have to pay for it.

The cell is not large. Unmoving, Prowl is only a step or two away from Jazz. Sitting opposite Jazz would put him in the prisoner's seat of an interrogation, and even though he has agreed to cooperate, he cannot help but hesitate (stall) before doing so. Sitting on the berth would put him almost as near Jazz, without a table between. (And would put him on the berth.)

Jazz glances over at him and waves vaguely towards the opposite chair.

Prowl does not know whether that counts as an order, and if it does whether it is wiser to resist. But he does not have the energy to fight. He scarcely has the energy to stand. He obeys mechanically, bracing weight on the back of the chair to slowly ease himself seated. Then he sits, ready.

"Hey." Jazz has the chair knocked at an angle, precariously (false, #;7%) balanced by his grip on the table, rocking slightly. He nods at Prowl as he sits, pulling a faint smile as if in greeting. Then he pauses, stills, leans forward. The legs of the chair land back on the floor with a quiet thud, the smile fades, and Jazz tilts his head to examine Prowl, far too intent, too attentive for a simple greeting. "S'up?"

Prowl settles himself carefully, cycles a ventilation and feels fading creaks of pain. The stress (and damage) is making his head (and his wings and struts down his back and legs) hurt.

Jazz does not move, and Prowl cannot trust his sense of (too much) time passing but he has no better guidance and nothing to gain but building panic as he stalls.

He tries to relax enough to think, tries to swallow rage and indignation enough to pass as sufficiently submissive, to smooth this. He steadies himself, and bows his head. "I'm sorry," he tries.

Jazz does not make a sound for an endless, nauseating beat. Neither of them vents.

"What was that?" Jazz says, tone soft, slightly uneven, strange.

Prowl does not think visual information would help right now, so he does not look up. "T-tampering with my memories was my own decision and it is unfair to consider you responsible."

"Unfair to..." Jazz echoes — mocking? confused? "Oh, nah, I ain’t mad about —" He waves a hand, catching Prowl's reflexive attention. Luckily, Jazz is looking theatrically off to the side and so seems not to notice Prowl's minor jump, and simply shrugs, flicking plating. "S’okay. Wish you hadn’t—but, done’s done."

Jazz returns his attention suddenly — he catches Prowl's staring, but simply meets it with some kind of slight smile. Prowl ignores a frisson of unease and nods slowly.

Unsure whether they are done with the preamble, Prowl (watching Jazz for reaction) cautiously raises his hands and slowly puts them on the table, cooperative.

Jazz looks down at Prowl's hands on the table, and pauses, smile dropping.

Prowl looks down and forces his hands still, forces himself to cooperate and reaches his hands forwards, turning them so that the backs of his wrists rest on the magnetizable strip embedded in the desk. He vents (too shallowly) and draws back the covers on his outer data ports. He forces his hands to be still, again.

He knows he should not watch this. Watching will add revulsion to pain, and may (84%) lead him to reflexively fight and escalate violence. He should look away, should fold his wings and shutter his optics. He finds himself unable to, unable to stop staring downwards at the interrogation table as his fans work and Jazz's silence becomes ominous.

"Hey," Jazz says. His tone is stilted, unconvincing. Prowl refuses to look up (cowardice) as Jazz shifts and reaches slowly across the table — Jazz barely (maybe?) falters at Prowl's quiet stressed whine, then continues. His claws are retracted, his fingers curled lightly in to point them away from Prowl as he takes Prowl's hands and pushes — nudges them, gently, back towards Prowl.

Prowl jerks his attention upwards, moving fast enough to send a flare of bright ache through his processor.

Jazz's smile is too still, unreadable. "None of that, Prowler."

Prowl considers, tries to understand what is happening. Jazz does not want to hardline right now, or yet, or so easily. Later? Something else? Something more—personal? Prowl does not like the options. He does not think cooperation will save him (Jazz will do whatever he wants), but he suspects that cooperation is still the strongest strategy.

Jazz is still holding his hands. He is not applying additional pressure or guidance, but simply keeping them in place. Prowl forces himself to hold still in the grip, tries not to react in any excess way. Cautiously, stealing a glance up, he nods.

"Hey." Jazz catches Prowl's glance and holds it — the cue is unmistakable, Prowl watches obediently as Jazz looks him over. His expression is intent, any show of rueful friendliness now gone. He removes his hands without shifting his weight, without drawing back more than a few nanomets. "Prowl," he says. "I ain’t gonna hurt you."

Prowl nods again, mind racing, processor spinning too fast, spinning the constant background discomfort into a splitting pain as Prowl tries (and fails) to think. Jazz wants his trust, wants him to relax for whatever is next, and Prowl cannot figure out how to convincingly oblige the pretense without opening himself up to unmanageable danger.

"I ain't," Jazz says, because Prowl froze too long, and seeing his disbelief was facile. He reaches out again, slowly, as if watching for a reaction and — Prowl does not react, does not draw back, does not move — Jazz takes Prowl's left hand and gently but decisively picks it up. Moving like he is handling something fragile, he turns Prowl's hand over and sets it back on the table, palm-down, vulnerable ports less obviously exposed.

Then Jazz lets go, slowly, pulls back just slightly, and then touches the back of his hand again, lightly, briefly.

A deliberate, parodic, friendly pat.

Prowl internally debates whether to yield to his instinct to relax slightly under the touch. It is a physical reflex, not at all reflective of good danger assessment, but it may also be useful or crucial for fending off — if nothing else — sheer stress exhaustion. He holds still.

Jazz leans back, finally drawing his hands away from Prowl, keeping them in view to make a loose dismissive gesture belied by his continued unwavering scrutiny of Prowl. "What you think is happening?"

Prowl cannot think under Jazz's lazy faux-casual gaze. He knows that Jazz does not like his reaction, and does not know how to correct. Jazz may be asking (demanding) him to fire his own smelter. He feels like he is racing in darkness along a narrow cliffside road, aware he may plummet at any moment but unable to do anything about it.

Jazz watches, mask of patience too perfect, implausible. (Fascinated.) Prowl has little to gain from resistance. (He has always been too proud.) He should cooperate.

What does he think is happening? He does not know, but he can guess. "I cannot provide tactical information," Prowl says, again.

Jazz, coming to a relaxed seat across the table, nods minutely and does not interrupt.

"I am of limited tactical value. I am primarily here due to your personal interest in me." Prowl speaks steadily, as if he is laying out any situational report, and quietly, as if it gives him any control. "You are known to be a liar and a sadist. You hate me because I killed your cohort team." And what, precisely, is Jazz going to do?

While Prowl speaks, Jazz holds still — mostly. The constant motion that he uses to create an impression of loose relaxation cuts out entirely, while his hands, resting on the table, draw and catch and clench at the edge, tense, components tightening silently into crushing strength that Prowl can imagine all too clearly.

"Wha—" Prowl never expected himself to be brave. He is, nonetheless, ashamed of the choked whimper he falters into. He cannot ask. His voice fails, and before can consider a second try — Jazz moves.

"Oh fuck—"

Prowl flinches (pointlessly) before he understands why, before he registers that Jazz has moved — Jazz let go of the table and jerked back, stood up, leaving his chair settling, destabilized. Jazz is still standing, and has already stopped moving again, staring at Prowl, visor bright. "You—"

Prowl keeps a resolute peripheral watch on Jazz, but does not uncurl, does not try to speak while it could be taken as interruption.

For a long or short or carefully measured time, neither speaks. Jazz takes a slow vent, watching, waiting. (Waiting for Prowl to continue.) "What was that?" Jazz says, voice utterly, abnormally, bland.

So far, so long as he has continued to respond, no matter what he has said, nothing has happened, so Prowl gulps air and forces out words in case it will buy him more time, more information. "What are you going to do to me?"

"Ah," Jazz says. He steps back, and back again, bringing his hands up. "Slag, slag, slag, no, I—" Jazz turns and takes a fast step that could almost launch an attack but does not bring him back into immediate grabbing range.

Jazz takes another step, turns again, stops, and looks up. (Pacing, *l*rf%.) He laughs, mechanically and unconvincingly. "I just wanted to talk," he says. "I didn't think—" He exvents slowly, and lowers his hands, keeping them spread non-threateningly. "I didn't think."

Prowl tentatively, belatedly, recognizes Jazz's intent. But Jazz is a good liar, and his display of surprise and panic proves little, and Prowl does not understand what his goal is. Prowl is a worse actor, and cannot hide his disbelief.

Jazz frowns (of course), and Prowl shrinks back again, no longer willing to trade defensibility for the slight increase in detail tracking of Jazz's path, which seems to have settled ('settled') into erratic movement on the other side of the room.

"That'd—" Jazz groans, and even without looking Prowl can see him start to pace. "I don't—"

Prowl watches peripherally, warily, as Jazz (agitated) looks around the cell

"Okay." Jazz pauses, looking (glaring) at a blank section of wall. "Frag," he hisses, too quiet for Prowl to be sure (kl!p%) it is meant for him, and lurches — turns, takes a step, and steps back in one alarming stutter — to look back at Prowl. His expression is, uncharacteristically, sober, and he addresses Prowl very seriously. "Do you know Smokescreen?"

The concept? (No, he says it like a name (that Prowl does not know).) Should he know Smokescreen? Does he know Smokescreen? (Prowl is not good with names, even when he is functioning at a more normal capacity.) What kind of question— Prowl does not know how much time has passed, but he aches from the pause, and takes a careful (too hot) vent and speaks carefully. "I cannot provide tact —"

"Ain’t fragging tactical." Jazz's head twitches in a slight jerk of dismissal, but he does not otherwise move, and his expression remains flat and unamused. "Smokescreen’s a Bot," he says, "probably the Bot you should be talking to right now."

Prowl flinches, not sure what the correct response is (if there is a correct response).

"I'm sorry." Jazz laughs, again, too brightly, brittle (upset?). "Sorry, I fragged this," he says, upset. He groans, shaking his head, settling to watch Prowl again, assessing again. "Ain’t a tactical question — are you fragging terrified of Smokey?"

Prowl searches Jazz for cues, and finds little to work with beyond their literal conversation. "I don’t know who Smokey is," he answers slowly (stiffly).

"Great!" Jazz grins, disorienting against the clear tension of his movement as he takes a decisive step towards the door (towards Prowl) — Prowl tenses, hastily huddling back again. Jazz ignores it, ignores him, and leaves, without pausing even to look back.