Step to the Beat
Chapter 1: Just a Poor Boy
Rating: PG-13 (references to drugs, alcohol, and prostitution; poverty; illicit activity; Mafia-type group)
Setting: Polyhex, Dead End district; Prewar
(Jazz aged equivalent to 5 years)
"Get up, or ya won't get your energon!" A white mechling was shaking his smaller twin's shoulder and yelling into his audio. "C'mon! Carrier's gonna leave soon, an' we can't reach it!"
The dark cerulean optics of the smaller, nearly identical twin looked on groggily after onlining. "Mmm... Where's 'e goin'?"
"With some friends, I guess? Sire got 'em access t' somethin' called a sim...sim...sim-ul-tronic I guess."
"Oh. M'kay." The smaller mech let himself be dragged off the berth by the hand, stumbling until he could gain his footing, and following the bigger mech out of their room. They could hear someone in the kitchen, rummaging through storage bins and the energon cooler. Their carrier's steps were slow, like he'd just woken up, and whenever he spoke his words were slurred.
The bigger twin, Ricochet, leaned in close to whisper in his brother's audio, "I think 'e's drunk again."
"Sounds like it," the other mechling, Jazz, agreed in an equally hushed voice.
The mechlings slunk into the kitchen carefully, wanting to avoid being tripped over by their unsteady carrier. They pulled themselves up to the table, and when the energon was set in front of them Ricochet went through the usual task of dividing it into two smaller cubes that were also set down. He measured the cubes pretty well, though his did have a little more than the other. His brother didn't argue; Rico had a bigger frame anyway.
"M'kay. So. What're we gonna to today?" Ricochet asked. He then took a long drink from his cube that resulted in a splutter and for it to start running down his chin and, as a result, chest. Their carrier only rumbled a laugh and took a rag to clean up the spill while the mechlings talked.
Giggling at the mess, Jazz shrugged. "Um... I dunno. Maybe Birdie'll play with us?"
"Ugh!" Rico leaned back in his seat dramatically when their carrier had finished cleanup. "Just hurry up an' fuel. Maybe we'll find somethin' outside."
The rest of their meal went in relative silence. The only noise they made was when their carrier announced his departure with a 'behave yourselves', and both mechlings jumped down from their seats to wrap their arms around Fuse's legs in farewell.
When the mechlings had finished their fuel, their carrier long gone now, they cleaned up their cubes and brought them to the receptacle so their sire could decontaminate and put the cubes away when he got home later. As soon as that was done, Ricochet was practically dragging his smaller twin out the door. They made sure to close it completely behind them, then they both sprinted down the nearest alley. They giggled the whole way, tripping over each other. The mechlings zig-zagged through one alleyway, then another, in a pattern outsiders of their district would find a maze.
Now, sure, they'd gotten lost a few times in the past, but that's what Nightwatch and his mechs were there for. The 'Watchmechs', the Dead End residents called them. They stayed on street corners, at the ends of alleys, and on the sturdier rooftops to keep an optic on things in the district. For an area that couldn't afford, nor had the importance, to have Enforcers, the Watchmechs were invaluable to the residents there. They also turned a blind optic to the alleyway street-deals, so long as no one was harmed during one of them. Something Enforcers never would've done.
Every once in a while, the twins would look at a mech in the shadows, or up at the roofs, and wave with wide twin-grins and greet the mechs by name.
Skidding, they slowed down for the next corner. Both mechlings squealed when they crashed into a massive frame. Rico scrambled out of its way. Jazz found himself picked up by the pedes. For a few klicks, he stared wide-opticked, Ricochet's expression much the same. Then they started giggling again. The big frame tucked Jazz into the crook of his arm and proceeded to tickle the mechling.
"P-prybar!" Already giggling and kicking in the big mech's grip, Jazz sent his brother a pleading look. "Pry-ee!-that tickles!"
After that had gone on a while, Rico about busting a transistor from laughing so hard at his poor twin's expense and the curses sent over the bond, Jazz was put back on the ground. He was unsteady on his pedes, and plopped down next to his brother's feet. Prybar's large plane-wings gave a series of twitches, and his helm tilted as a crooked grin remained on his face.
"We're just playin'." Rico spoke now. Jazz was still gasping to cool his systems back down. "Prob'ly gonna go find Songbird. Ya seen her?"
Prybar brought a hand to his chin. After thinking for a few klicks, he shook his helm, then let his wings twitch again. The twins watched those movements carefully, their own tiny door wings fluttering to copy the movements.
"Oh." Ricochet's doors drooped. Then he brought a hand down to help Jazz back up to his pedes. "Thanks anyway!"
The white mechlings offered a pair of matching grins and waves with a, "See ya, Pry!" before darting around him and continuing deeper into the center of their district and toward the place Songbird lived with her sire.
It really didn't take much longer after that for the mechlings to reach a place they'd grown familiar with. Both of them fisted their tiny hands, and rapped on the metal slab that substituted a door for the makeshift shack. A frail mech slid the slab aside just enough to peek out at the mechlings, and then he pushed it fully to the side. Worn joints creaking in protest, he sank down to his knees in front of the twins. "What can I do ya for?" he asked in a hoarse voice. The mechlings didn't move besides craning their necks to look up at him. They recognized the mech as their friend's sire, and didn't feel the need to fear him.
"Can Birdie come play?" they asked in unison.
The old mech shook his helm. "Sorry, mechs. She's busy."
Tiny doors drooped and frames sagged. "Oh," was all Ricochet offered. He glanced down at his brother when Jazz grabbed him by the wrist and started tugging. He waved at Songbird's sire, then stumbled after the smaller mech. "Jazz! Where're we goin'?"
"Energon!" He spread his arms out for emphasis as they scurried through alleyways and across dilapidated streets. "I bet Sire an' Carrier'll like if we bring some home!"
"But...we don't have credits!"
"Don't need 'em!"
Weaving around other mecha, darting across the streets to avoid being run over, and ducking for cover whenever they didn't recognize someone, the twins made their way to the...'business' streets of their district known simply as the Business District. They ignored the stares buymecha gave them, and skirted past dealers and their customers with a safe berth between them-really preferring not to be shot if a deal went bad. They were looking to the less-illegal sales that went on in the Dead End. That being, energon-sales. Still not exactly legal, as the mechs weren't licensed to sell, but they sure as Pit wouldn't get in as much trouble as the dealers, buyers, buymecha, and other illegals also in the area.
The twins turned to speaking through their bond as they ducked behind the safety of a Watchmech when a particularly shady-looking mech started eyeing the pair.
~What are we doing?~ Ricochet demanded, glaring at his brother as they spoke in outward silence.
~Gettin' energon, dummy!~ Jazz retorted with a smug grin. That just earned a punch to the shoulder from his bigger brother. The squeak from Jazz resulted in the Watchmech (who they'd recognized as Grock) turning to give them a pointed, 'behave yourselves', look.
~We're not supposed to be here without Carrier or Sire!~
~So? Grock and some others are here! We're completely safe!~ He gestured to the Watchmech they were taking cover behind, then out at the two others he could see. There were bound to be others in the shadows and on rooftops, too.
~Sire's gonna ground us 'til our next upgrade for this...~ Ricochet grumbled, but submitted.
"Not if he don't find out!" Jazz giggled, startling his brother when he spoke aloud instead of through the bond. He skipped out from behind the safety of the old Watchmech, clumsily skipping in circles until Ricochet finally followed.
"Hey!" The twins flinched, hunched their backs, and turned back to Grock. The old mech's pale optics were fixed on them, and then he scanned the street. "Y'two bes' stay near'a oth' Watchers, y'got it?" His voice was laced with the static of disrepair for vorns. The twins both nodded fast enough it was a wonder they didn't get dizzy and fall flat on their afts. "Don' wanna be'a one t'tell y'creators y'didn't make it through th'cycle."
White mechlings exchanged glances, then nodded again. "We promise we'll be careful!" they offered. They were already scampering away before Grock could respond.
Darting across the street, and then back again, they looked over the makeshift tables from under the careful optics of Grock and some others. The 'merchants' watched the younglings just as carefully, cautious of sneaky fingers snatching something away without payment. After a while, they'd both managed to secure a cube each and stash them in subspace before they were caught. With that done, the twins turned and darted for the alley that would lead them home fastest.
They only made it about halfway down that alley before a flight frame landed in front of them and cut off the thrusters in his pedes upon landing. He crouched down over them both, a cruel grin on his lips. "Now ain't you a pretty pair?" Ricochet locked his arm around his smaller brother's, and they both growled with tiny engines. The mech reached down and put a digit under each of their chins, getting a good look of their faces. "Could make a lot off'a you two."
"Rust in the Pit!" Rico spat.
Jazz added, "Dirty slaver!"
Both voices were loud as the mechlings shouted their insults. Immediately after, something met the flight-frame square in the chest, knocking him backward and flat on his aft. Those shouts had caught the attention of the Watchmechs in the immediate area. Looking up, the twins saw that Grock was the one to land the blow. There was another Watcher behind him, and third coming their way. Grock and the second one moved to subdue the flier, dragging him to his pedes and holding his arms behind him. If he struggled, the hold would wind up breaking the joints in both shoulders-it kept him pretty still even as he growled and hissed.
When the third mech reached them, the first two bowed their helms to him respectfully while Jazz and Ricochet ran to the safety that was the back of his legs, almost clinging there. Painful-looking etchings marked his frame to show just who he was as top dog of the Watchmechs. He crooked a single finger, and the first two shoved the flier forward without letting go. It earned a wince from him as his arms were yanked.
"Now." The mech's voice was gravelly and growled out at the slaver. Fisted hands moved onto his hips, and he leaned over the captive flier. "You ain't gonna touch these mechlings again, are you?"
"Ain't your littles," the flier spat. His wings rattled on his back.
"Mm..." The etch-plated mech hummed to himself, then tossed his head back to indicate the street beyond the alley. "You're in my district. These two're my responsibility." A glance at Grock and his partner. "Take 'im to Holding. I'll be back when I see to that they're home safe."
Ricochet and Jazz exchanged glances as the flier was dragged, kicking and screaming now, out of the alleyway. "Nighty?" Jazz asked, pawing at the Watchmech's leg when the other two were gone with the slaver. "Ya ain't gonna hurt 'im, are ya?" Both twins looked at him expectantly for an answer with round, innocent optics.
"Ain't your concern, tykes. C'mon." The mech knelt and held out his arms. Both mechs eagerly climbed into the embrace so they could be held. "Let's get ya home."
By the time Nightwatch had reached the twins' home, they were both deep in recharge, helms nuzzled against his neck. He'd knocked on the low-quality door by using his pede-more kicking than knocking. The mechlings' sire answered and let the Watchmech in without so much as a questioning glance. The matte-armored mech carried them both into their room under their sire's, Wheelwell's, watchful optics and rested them both on their berth before exiting. He and Wheelwell shook hands, the sire also dipping his helm, and Nightwatch departed to deal with his newest problem.