This is another plot bunny that won't leave me alone. I may or may not continue, depending on what you guys thing. Anywas, enjoy! :-)
Dancing. A verb meaning a recreational activity that involves the movement of the body to the rhythm of music, one that was being carried out by a certain sliver mech in Ember, one of Cybertron's hottest clubs. Techno music blared and the base was so low, you could see the walls vibrate if you looked hard enough. Jazz was enjoying the nightlife, as he did every day. He would go out every night to a different club. He would drink a cube of high grade or try one of the house special mixes. He had found a favorite called a Cosmo at club named Teca. But while the high grade was nice and all, he really went for the dancing. He lived for the music and there was no better place to find it. He would find different partners; many were more than willing to dance with him and they all hoped to see him again, but they never did. There were enough clubs in Polyhex that you could go to a different one every night for year, and that's what Jazz did. He didn't do at random, no. He was searching for something. There was one thing he couldn't find in any of the many clubs he'd been to. Until tonight. It was true that almost all of the clubs in Polyhex were basically the same, but one thing separated Ember from the rest. It gave him the one thing he'd been looking for. The right partner.
He had been sitting at the bar sipping a cube of high grade, when he saw her. A small femme sitting at a booth in the corner. The femme was silver as well, but she had elegant teal detailing that brought out just the right curves. She had been scanning the dance floor doing what Jazz had for the last few months. She was looking for a partner. This is when Jazz made his move. Leaving credits on the counter to pay for his drink, he made his way over to the femme.
"Wanna dance?" Jazz asked smoothly, his Polyhexian accent.
"Sure" she answered back just as smooth. Any bot could tell by the way she looked and talked, that she was a clubber. Always at any club she could find, trying to stay where the music was.
Jazz didn't get his hopes up. He never did. It seemed that no bot on Cybertron could keep up with him on the dance floor; so to say he was surprised when she started moving at a rate and style that rivaled his own. Soon the simple beat picked up and so did their dancing. Instead of simple movement, Jazz was flipping her up and over his head, they whipped around in each others' arms and it was magical to watch. It was like two acrobats, except they were moving so perfectly to the beat, the phrase acrobat didn't even begin to cover the level of precision and beauty. She knew his next move, and he knew hers. During a dip in the song, Jazz took it as a chance to ask her some questions.
"So," he began. "Ya missin' the Polyhexian accent', where you from?"
"Altihex" she shouted over the base "I'm new in town."
"Altihex is a long way from here. Why did ya leave?" he asked her. Most bots never left the city they were sparked in and Altihex was on the other side of Cybertron.
"Needed a change in scenery I guess. Altihex got old." She said.
"So what's your name baby?" Jazz asked.
But he never got an answer, because just at that second, there was a massive explosion. There had been a declaration of war between two sides called Autobots and Decepticons. It was still in its beginning and didn't affect too many people. Definitely not Jazz, until now. The explosion likely came from a Decepticon bomb dropping, as they had taken to bombing neutral territories as well as Autobot ones. The explosion was so large that Jazz had blacked out for a second. When his optics onlined again only two minutes later, smoke and dust filled the air and the femme was gone. He wanted to go and look for her. To make sure she was alive and alright, but he couldn't get up. The blast had sent him crashing into a wall and some tables and the strut in his upper leg snapped in half. Usually, even a small bend or disfigurement of a strut would cause a mech in severe pain, but Jazz's had broken cleanly in half, leaving him in agony. The next thing he knew, he was being loaded onto a gurney and into an ambulance. He spent a week in the hospital and twelve on crutches with a brace that went all the way up to his hip, but as soon as he was cleared by his doctor, he enlisted to fight in the war as an Autobot. The night of the explosion was the last night he had seen the femme. Dancing is only really fun when you find the right partner. Well Jazz found his, but the war took her away.
"Beep. Beeep. Beeeeeeep. BEEEEEEEEEEEEEP." Jazz's internal alarm wailed at 6:30 in the morning, Diego Garcia time. If by a miracle, Ratchet had managed to save him after he was torn in half by Megatron. The mech groaned as he opened his optics to reveal the slate grey ceiling of his quarters. He swung his legs onto the floor and grabbed the crutches that rested against the wall next to his berth. Although he had been saved, no one in their right mind could say that Jazz was left unaffected. His bottom half had been torn off, which meant that important connections had been severed. Ratchet was able to reconnect them, but he had to bring them back into use on his own and by no means was it a quick, easy, or painless process. It was much like if a human had broken their spine, only he was able to work to regain use of his legs. He was in the med bay for a month and a half and he had been touch and go for the first two weeks, finally waking up at the end of week three. After the med bay, he was in a wheelchair for three months, which annoyed him to no end. During the second month of being in the wheelchair, they started him in physical therapy. Starting him off light in the beginning, Ratchet and Nova stood on either side of him as he attempted to stand. Even with the two of them taking on most of his weight, he could only remain standing for about twenty seconds. Physical therapy was extremely difficult. Nova was one of the sweetest, gentlest bots he knew and even she couldn't make it hurt less. She would talk to him about other things like music or her relationship with Bluestreak in attempt to distract him, but it never helped much. Every day, she worked with him on strengthening his legs and every day, he would leave exhausted and in pain. He swore that sometimes, the physical therapy was more agonizing than when he snapped his strut, or even when he was torn in half. Now Jazz was certainly no sparkling, but on occasion, even he had to tell Nova that needed to stop. He needed to take a break, get back into the hated chair and pick up again either later or the next day. On those days like these, his best friend Prowl, who had arrived shortly after the battle of Mission City, would come by in the evenings and help him by rubbing some sore spots on his legs that he had worked particularly hard on that day until he fell into recharge. It seemed as though he would never get out of the wheelchair, but eventually, after two months of physical therapy, they decided that he would be fine with crutches. And that's where he had been for the last four months, walking with crutches. These crutches were different than the ones he had when he broke his strut thouh. Those you put under your arm, but these were shorter with a handle that you grabbed onto and a rin on top that in a way secured it to your arm. At first, he had been ecstatic about getting out of the chair and not needing help to do everything, but he soon realized that after three months, he wanted to be rid of the crutches. He had tried to walk on his own, but quickly found out that he couldn't go anywhere without them. The times he had tried resulted in Prowl finding him collapsed on the floor of his quarters, desperately trying to grab onto things to get up. In these cases, the SIC would help the saboteur up off the ground and into bed. Then he would reassure him that although his recovery may be taking a while, it would all turn out right.
Jazz used his crutches to get up out of bed and hobble over to the door. He went on his way through the hallway a little faster than usual, as he was going to be late to a meeting, but he ultimately paid the price when one of his crutches slipped and he ended up crashing to the ground. His head smashed onto the floor and his crutches had been thrown out of his reach. He attempted to push himself up a little so that he could possibly make it to one of his crutches then grab the other, but as soon as he tried, pain exploded in his wrist and he fell back down. Thankfully, Nova had been close by and heard the crash.
"Jazz!" She shouted in concern. "Are you alright?"
"Not really" he replied through denta clenched in pain from his wrist and quickly forming headache.
She ran over to the mech and helped him lean up against the wall as she checked over his injuries.
"It's not broken, " she said, looking at his wrist. Apologizing when he flinched as she moved his wrist a bit. "but its a pretty nasty sprain on top of an equally bed dislocation."
"Great" he said with an annoyed expression on his face.
"How did this happen?" She asked him. She took a cloth out of her subspace and wiped some of the energon off of the gash that was on his forehead. It was a little too deep for her liking and was bleeding steadily.
"I slipped. I'm late for a meetinn" Jazz said.
"Well you can forget about the meeting. You need to get to the med bay. I'll call Ratchet to get the wheelchair." she told him.
"No, is fine, I don need tha chair."
"Your wrist, remember? You can't use your crutches."
"Then can ya help meh? Please?" He didn't even need to use the puppy dog eyes, the look of sadness and desperation on his face was enough to break Nova's spark.
The two ended up slowly making their way down the hall towards the med bay. Jazz used one of his crutches while Nova held onto and supported him by his upper arm of his other arm, being careful not to bang around his wrist. About half way there, Jazz looked ready to pass out from exhaustion and Nova was tempted to call Ratchet for the wheelchair. Jazz had never been pushed this hard, not even in physical therapy. She had wanted to call, but Jazz had insisted that he could make it. They made it three quarters of the way there before Jazz admitted that he couldn't make it. His legs were screaming for him to stop and he couldn't ignore it anymore. Ratchet came quickly and they gently set Jazz into the wheelchair. Ratchet treated his injuries rather fast. The gash wasn't as deep as Nova originally thought and didn't even need welding. A mesh bandage was taped on top of it to slow the bleeding and he was given pain medication for his headache that had become a pounding throb. His wrist was more complicated. It had to be put in a brace for the next three to five days and while the brace was on, he couldn't use his crutches, which meant he was back in the chair. He was in the middle of wheeling himself back to his quarters, when he heard a familiar song. He would recognize that song from miles away. It was the song he had danced to with the mystery femme the night of the explosion. Immediately he started wheeling himself to the source of the music, which happened to be Sam's cell phone.
"Whas that song?" He asked the boy.
"What? Woah! Jazz, what happened?" replied Sam.
"Long story, tell ya later. What was that song?" Jazz asked again.
"The song? It's Greyhound by The Swedish House Mafia. Why?"
"Longer story. Thanks Sam" said Jazz as he wheeled himself to his room, leaving the poor boy hopelessly confused.
That's the end of the first chapter everyone. I'll keep updating if you guys like it but for now, this is RA88, signing off with a smile :-)