Notes:
I apologise for the shortness of this chapter, but I'm trying to follow a particular schedule in the story, so it might happen again to have shorter chapters or longer ones, depending on the thematic I'm treating.
It might come to your attention that the chapters are not following a strict time-line. You should be able to easily follow the main strand of events, but it will happen to find episode occurring in the past of the characters (NEVER in the future), or briefly before the main events.
If there are any questions regarding this topic, feel free to ask, I'll try to clarify eventual incomprehensions.
TOCCATA E FUGA
Mistakes can change your life.
Jazz liked SpecOps.
Living in the streets had made him realize the value in making himself invisible, in blending in the shadows, in listening before speaking.
In the streets, being noticed was not ideal.
Being noticeable was even worse.
In the streets, bots disappeared without a trace. If they were pretty, if they cocked their hips just so, if their smile was alluring without even meaning to, they were gone.
Too late to go back.
Sometimes they resurfaced, working in pleasure-centres, optics dimming client after client, paint nanites dulling after vorns of having their plating hit, dented, gripped.
Others reappeared in ditches, bodies torn and scavenged for parts, entire lines of tubing and wires missing.
If you were nobody, your value resided in your hardware.
Without a familial unit, without friends, without caretaker or protector, Jazz learnt fast.
He kept to the shadows, listened, and learned.
To survive meant to be smarter, faster, swifter, and invisible.
Until he was caught.
One moment he was following a grey-and-green bot, and the next he was pinned against a wall, a thin but oh so sharp blade pressed against the major energon lines of his throat, body efficiently restrained and trapped.
The mech he had been following was watching him, faceplate inexpressive and almost relaxed, caution only visible in the narrowing of dark red optics and the carefully-restrained strength he could feel in the servos that were keeping him pinned.
"How long have you been following me?"
Jazz knew he had made a mistake.
The mech had seemed armless, same as the others filling the streets, but Jazz had noticed the details and seen the healthy sheen of his armor despite the dust covering it, the hardness in the plates that only came from a well-rounded alimentation of minerals and metals, and a steady access to fuel.
He should have realized that there was something more, but he had been starving, too long without energon and metals and his frame was already falling apart, panels flaking and paint nanites faded and scratched, metal soft and cracking, internal repairs more concerned with keeping him alive than repair surface and cosmetic injuries.
A healthy mech meant healthy life-style, which lead to a steady job and energon and credits.
"Just a couple of breems, I swear, I didn't see anything I won't say anything…" he babbled, panic rising and utterly destroying any kind of self-control. He trashed in the restraining grip of the other, barely moving at all under the crushing strength keeping him still, words falling from his vocalizer without him noticing because he knew he was in so deep slag.
Spies, and snitches, and just plain annoyances died in the streets.
"Silence."
His thin mouth components smacked closed, vocaliser resetting a few times with a noisy grating sound – his gears were falling apart and dust had entered his frame and he needed to refuel so badly his energon tank was imploding – that filled the silence.
The mech was watching him with keen eyes, the earlier tension around them drifting away slowly. The weight keeping him pinned ended abruptly, but those strong servos were still maintaining their grip on his shoulder plates, denting the starved metal and straining the thin cables underneath, making Jazz wince and whine softly.
"You are young."
Jazz reset his optics, faint silver light – silver like bleached metal, like circuits and systems not getting enough nutrients to establish basic code-genetic differences between mechanism – trembling and flickering in his exhaustion and lack of energy.
"Yes sir."
"How young?"
"N-nine vorns, sir."
The mech didn't reply, staring at Jazz and not moving an inch.
"The problem, little one, is not you following me…" the other began, a slow grin – terrifying, horrible, full of dark promises and anticipation that made Jazz tremble and almost shed optical lubricant in fright – twisting his thin lips. "It's that I didn't notice."
Kup brought him home.
Three vorns later, Megatron and his revolution set Cybertron ablaze.
Things were going to the pit.
Jazz refused to give in and panic, his training helping him restrain the frantic beats and rolls of his scared spark. He was stuck in the air vents of the Decepticons' HQ, in a section he'd never been in before, and the schematics they had managed to download just a mega-cycle prior seemed to be wrong.
He was stuck there, in that tight and narrow space, in the darkness, with enemy mechs walking up and down the corridor under him. He couldn't go back, and he didn't know where going forward could bring him.
A rattle came from the air vents around him, and Jazz held his fans still, making them cease the already-inaudible ventilations they were keeping up.
A voice faintly came from behind him. "I'm just going to have a look. The cover of this vent is loose, it's better to check it out."
Panic spread through him, making his armor suddenly release the clamping position it was holding for the past joors to rattle noisily. Jazz inhaled sharply a mouthful of dusty air, struggling to still the panicky motions of his plates and return them to their previous motionless and soundless position.
"Did you hear that?!" came from behind him.
This is how I off-line, Jazz thought, processor spinning and energon freezing in his veins.
Go forward, then take the first turn right.
Jazz startled, barely able to avoid jerking his servos against the narrow walls of the air vent, eternally grateful for the habit of off-lining his vocalizer every time he went on this kind of mission. A scream had built in his throat tubing, now choked off.
A voice had spoken in his processor.
A voice had spoken in his processor.
He reached a new level of panic, frame overheating from the activity of his frantic spark, coolant building all over his armor plates and almost dripping over the air vent's floor in a frantic attempt at cooling his frame.
Open those fans of yours, ventilate, then go forward and take the first turn right.
Jazz barely jerked again, and struggled to open his cooling vents, cringing from the sound they made while they expelled warm hair from his protoform. His chronometer ticked at him, mocking him for all the time he was wasting, and the clanking from the portion of the air vent behind him was growing noisier by the klik.
Voice or not voice, he had to move forward.
The trek ahead seemed endless to his shaken processor, frantic spark still hammering against the crystal of his spark chamber, the sensation making his chest-plates ache with phantom pain.
At the blue light of his visor he saw the air vent sharply curve and open to his right, and he mindlessly turned, his processor instinctively deciding to trust that voice coming from nowhere, from inside his processor, from where it couldn't come because his head was his own and sure as the pit he hadn't been hacked damn it.
He continued forward, shuffling on his elbows, knees and pedes trying to find traction to help his movements.
Take the second turn left and go forward until you encounter an opening on the floor. Slip through, as silent as possible.
Fans spinning, the coolant dripping from his faceplate was making his grip slip on the smooth surface. His armor struggled to stay clamped to his protoform, the heat inside exhausting him further.
Jazz held on, and moved forward. Alerts started appeared on his HUD, bright and demanding his attention, glyphs for overheating and imminent shut down blinking frantically at his optics.
First opening on the left.
He continued forward, weak and exhausted, fright and panic and terror weighing him down.
He moved on.
Second opening on the left.
He turned, his armor scraping noisily against the sharp corner, definitely leaving black paint scrapes on the plain grey metal. The sound travelled along the tunnel, and the movement of pursuit behind him reached again his audials, making whining static spit and crackle from his struggling-to-activate vocalizer.
The floor opened up suddenly under him.
Jazz slipped and fell.
Darkness welcomed him in statis.
Notes:
I hope you liked this one!
The second scene is a particular favorite of mine, I just loved writing it! (together with the second one in the next chapter, you'll see!)
Anyway, I'll go hide in a corner, I'll resurface next week!
V.
