A mech could easily skip a shift of fuel, but skipping two shifts was uncomfortable, three was painful, and four stressed their systems to breaking. Most mechs had a few extra cubes stashed away, but the city had been locked down for almost eight shifts. The curfew meant that most bots were on the edge of collapsing.

Finally it ended, and even then, the city held its breath. Rumors spread via radio stations and personal comms that the senate elite were still in the substructure, driving out crazed empties and dangerous criminals. Mechs were slow to emerge from their apartments, afraid to be the first one on the streets.

That made it easier for the Jazz's bots to speed through to the pleasure district. As soon as the official notice had come from the Senate, Jazz summoned his staff, and instead of the usual 20% staff discount, he was promising energon at cost.

Before they'd arrived, Jazz had pulled the tables from the edges of the club and arranged them on the dance floor. He even closed up the side rooms and pulled the seating into the main space, bringing the chairs down from the tables when Blaster arrived, rolling through the open doors.

"Jazz!" Blaster drove down the long hall, transforming as he ran into the club. "Where's—?"

"S'waiting for you on the bar," Jazz said as he passed.

"I'll pay you later." Blaster held all of his cassettes, their small frames drooped over his arms. "I couldn't even keep them in my casing—they could've gotten stuck—"

He spread them out on the bar, holding them upright as they each lifted a mini-cube and began to drink. Blaster had to wait until he was sure Rewind could sit straight before he could drain his own draught.

The door swung open again. Jazz tensed. Until his security arrived, his whole frame crackled with static not knowing who was coming in. But he relaxed to see Moonracer enter, leaning against Wheeljack as she deliberately put one pede in front of the other.

"Hope I can buy extra…"

She held her arms wrapped around her frame as if she was holding herself together. Wheeljack brought her to the nearest stool where she sank with a weak engine rev, gulped down a cube, then sagged forward on the bar. There were heavy streaks of grime on her pedes and back, and dark smudges on her hands.

"Tables out, curtains on the stage…can I assume I'm not dancing? Please?"

He came behind her and polished off the black smears on her hard-to-reach filters.

"If you feel up to it," Jazz said, "don't let me stop you. But I guessed you wouldn't be feeling too hot."

"Should've held out 'till the fourth," she vented. "I'm on my fifth empty shift right now. Rusted senate, hope they all get it, too."

"Now now, don't say that too loud," he said. "I'd hate to lose my best dancer."

"That's Firestar and you know it," she smiled. "She ain't gonna show. She had friends she could go to."

"And she didn't call—?" Jazz started, then cut himself off. Impolite to call attention to a lady's lack of support.

"I got an invite," she assured him. "But I couldn't make it that far. 'Jack had to drag me halfway here."

"I believe it," he said, wiping grime from her hand. "Wash up, handle the drinks. I got the crowd tonight."

"…soon as I can get up again," she said.

A breem later, Beachcomber came next, staggering with one hand on the wall, swinging one way, then another. He smacked the credits onto the bar as he took the first available cube.

"You gonna be okay?" Jazz asked.

Beachcomber shrugged. "Who knows? The planet drifts and we drift with it, and where it ends, only Primus can tell—sparks back to the well? Smelted down to the pit? Maybe we return to the cosmic oversoul, one divinity, a grand—"

"Your whole stash of energon was spiked, wasn't it?" Jazz asked.

"Oh Primus, yes indeed," Beachcomber said, venting sadly. "I never meant to mix 'em like that, but at the end, I didn't have no choice. Been sailing the cosmic winds since a shift ago. I am currently talking to the you that's in the middle."

Behind him, catching the end of the conversation and extrapolating, Wheeljack nodded as if he'd expected that.

"What'd you take?" he asked. "I might have some counter-agents I can give you."

"What didn't I take?" Beachcomber said. "Tripping the light simultronic, crys-syk, good ol' kerosene and iridium…"

"Oh slag." Wheeljack put a straw in his cube and sipped through his facegrill. "Okay, you're going to take some base azeton, and then I'm going to hold you while you purge out back. Ready?"

Beachcomber sighed and subspaced a cube. "Be back in a nano, boss."

Dead End came in through the rear entrance, holding the door as Wheeljack and Beachcomber went out. He transferred credits to Jazz and hopped up on a stool to drink. Skids came not long after, waving and taking his own cube before taking his usual place to prep.

"What's on today's menu?" Skids asked, already pulling down a dozen cubes and taking one for himself.

"Basic energon," Jazz said. "Add something to make it go down easy—mechs're gonna have some stressed out systems. Everyone's gonna need oil and coolant, but don't put out the high grade stuff. It's a low key kinda shift."

"Got it, keep the azeton out like candy." Skids gave him a look. "What's the price point?"

"No discounts," Jazz said. "In fact, tack on two credits. Prices ain't going nowhere but up, we gotta keep stocked."

"…mechs're gonna be desperate," Skids said. "Heard the senate locked up the fuel arbiter's offices uptown."

"Senate compound's always locked up," Jazz said. "'Specially now."

"S'worse than that," Dead End said over his cube. "But…don't worry. There won't be any real trouble for awhile. Not 'till at least next shift."

"How you figure that?" Jazz asked.

"…huh." Dead End lifted his helm, considering it. "Well. The city couldn't restock 'cause of the lockdown. So everyone's half-dead right now. Mechs just went eight shifts without refueling."

Dead End took a long drink, half-draining the cube in one go.

"But…everyone just went eight shifts without refueling. 'Cause the Senate wanted to prove a point. Mechs're angry. Once we've got energon again, a little to spare…"

Dead End let the thought hang.

"'We'?" Jazz asked.

"…no one," Dead End said. "Just…just some friends."

Jazz waited, but Dead End didn't offer more. Jazz kept bringing down chairs, arranging them around tables to face the stage.

"I'd be lying if I said I didn't understand," Jazz said. "Primus knows there's probably mechs who didn't make it those eight shifts. But if someone else high and mighty gets fragged, ain't no telling what they'll do."

"'Cause they aren't afraid of us," Dead End muttered. "There's way more of us, but the senate ain't afraid."

"…I dunno. Looked to me like the Senate was eight shifts worth of afraid of us."

Jazz finished putting the last chair down. He looked around to make sure no one was obviously paying attention, then leaned close as he wiped a bit of imaginary dust off the bar beside Dead End.

"I ain't telling you how to do," Jazz said softly. "Just…anything else blows up right now, and eight shifts might be the least of what they do. And there's bots that can't survive that."

Dead End finished the cube and paid for a spare that he subspaced. He gave Jazz a long look—measuring him, weighing what he'd said.

"You're a good 'bot," Dead End said. "It's a shame…well. None of us live forever, huh?"

Dead End slid off the stool and stretched, heading toward the front entrance.

"That really hit the spot. I'll go walk around, keep an optic on the door 'till Beachcomber's better."

Jazz called to him, standing straight. ""Let me know if you see that Enforcer from a few shifts ago. Got something for him."

Dead End paused at the door, glancing over his shoulder. ""Good to hear where your spark lies. Just say the word if you need help hiding the mess."

Jazz watched him as the door swung shut. Did Dead End mean—? Jazz vented deep. Yes. Dead End meant that.

"So, uh…?" Wheeljack asked, coming from around the bar. He put his hand on Jazz's shoulder, following his look. "That happened. You think he…?"

"I ain't offlining any Enforcers," Jazz muttered. "Least not that one. But…let me know if Dead End says anything else, huh?"

Finally, it was showtime. Jazz turned off all the main lights, bringing up the electric trim along the floor, the bright flash of the sign, Neon Eclipse, in thick blue and liquid pink. Beachcomber stood at the door, one hand pressed against his swimming helm. It was Dead End who looked more imposing, allowing in the first mechs brave enough to scurry out into the street.

Before, the Neon Eclipse had been the fashionable end of the rough part of Iacon, all lasers and mirrors and dancing. But this was not the same club. The side rooms were closed off, and the dance floor was covered with soothing shadows scattered by the gold glow of bulbs on each table. Blaster played a soft, steady hum of strings and faint, faint drum—just enough to fill the air. The music relieved the mechs of any need to speak. Better to sit at a table, order a cube and hold it close, drinking slow so the energon didn't hit their strained systems hard and make them purge.

In the rest of the city, there were cheaper depots for energon. Cheaper oil and coolant cubes. But those truck stops and highway rest areas were bright, loud, and too, too fast. There were Enforcers and maybe Senate guards, and maybe desperate Empties, mechs with no credits left and nothing but enough desperation to gang together and attack passing mechs.

Jazz knew his clientele. The energon was smooth, processed twice, with bicarbonate flecks to soften its effect on a weakened system, bits of coolant to settle their scorched tanks. The club was dark enough that the audience felt half hidden, surrounded by enough other mechs that they weren't alone.

As more mechs trickled in, paying for a cube, they found a seat, looked over their shoulders, took a sip…relaxed…slumped a little in their chair…glanced around…

There. Now they were ready.

A starving, frightened audience was just a mob. But when they were safe enough to relax, to grow curious, to look around and let their minds wander…

Boss, Dead End said. That Enforcer…he's here. Want me to send him in?

Right on time, Jazz replied. Let 'Comber escort him to, table twelve, it's all set up.

On stage, behind heavy curtains, Jazz peeked through the cloth. Sure enough, there came Prowl, nodding once as Beachcomber motioned at the table—on the side, close to the stage, but away from everyone else. Even better, Prowl had subspaced his wings. The only decal marking him as an Enforcer was on his hood, and that was at enough of an angle that anyone looking would only see a smudge in the darkness.

Skids brought a complimentary drink to Prowl, who nevertheless made sure enough credits went to Skid's hand. Then he leaned over his drink, using it as an excuse to further hide his hood.

Jazz watched him for a moment, bemused. An Enforcer should have been confident, swaggering even. Instead Prowl hid behind his cube and scanned the room, glancing up at the VIP lounge above, then checking the bar, the catwalk, looking for Jazz. As out of place as a…well, as an honest Enforcer in a darkened club of questionable morals.

You ready? Blaster asked.

Jazz pinged back affirmative. He took a long vent, then grasped the sides of the curtains. The spotlight came up slow enough that it didn't startle the audience, a circle of soft light. The music began—slow base, thin piano.

Jazz spread the curtains slowly, revealing himself in the glow that set his white paint gleaming just enough to dazzle the optics. His voice was no longer the low groan when he sang for the elites—he sang like fingers stroking strings, as smooth as a hand over a curved chassis.

I never knew what love was gonna drive me to
A sweet affair, a confidential rendezvous,
They say you never know what love is gonna do
I never thought it would be you.

Jazz made a slow walk along the edge of the stage, farthest from Prowl, holding out his hand as if he were trailing his fingertips in the darkness. He swayed, showing off how, where most mechs were so rigid, Jazz rippled like liquid.

A song is nothing but a harmless little lie
Forgive me if I'm all tied up in alibis

He was in the center of the stage now, a little wiggle and dip—a tinfoil toy that could bend and twist in a big mech's hands. He may not have liked that part of entertaining, but damn if he couldn't suggest how good he was at it.

The course of love never runs straight or true
But I never thought it would be you.

He drew more slowly around the edge of the stage, one hand touching his throat, trailing his fingertips down his hood. He dragged one pede silently along the floor, then the other, and he turned toward the light. He ducked his helm down just enough to suggest shyness, made sure that his visor was pointed clearly at Prowl.

I'm scared of how I think that this is gonna go
But help me, I don't think I can tell you no

Just a hint more of his vent in his voice, breathy, wistful, uncertain. The tip of his glossa ran over his lips.

How could love have brought me here for you?
I never thought it would be you.

Blaster played out the piano another measure, allowing Jazz time to turn, to look over his shoulder, to pace back to the curtain and turn.

How could love have caught me here for you?
I never thought it would be you.

His hands found the edges of the curtain and pulled them close as he trailed the end of the song, looking back at Prowl one more time.

I never thought it would be you.

Soft applause followed. Behind the curtain, Jazz soaked it up. Everyone was worn down, coming back from running on fumes. Drawing any cheers from that crowd was a coup.

No one noticed him stepping down from the stage, skirting the edge of the darkness to escape into the elevator. Once he was in the private lounge, he mixed a drink to calm his nerves and looked out over Iacon. And he waited.

Now it was time for the real show.

"Excuse me, sir."

Prowl sat straight. He had been waiting for the next song, but as the minutes passed, he realized that Jazz probably didn't sing often. The mood in the room was quiet, masking their heavy vents with Blaster's music. Everyone here was tired, leaning heavily against their tables.

The femme leaning close looked like she worked here. She had a rag in one hand meant for cleaning spills, a stack of empty cubes in her arm.

"You're expected for a private performance," she murmured. "Please follow me."

Prowl glanced at the room to see if anyone was watching. Nobody was looking at him. In the dark, he recognized the distant stares of the traumatized, the exhausted. Nobody cared.

"Of course," Prowl said, rising. "I didn't think that—"

"He'll explain everything, I'm sure," the femme said over him, leading him to the private lift. Once he was inside, she touched the button to send it up, smiling as the doors began to close. "Be gentle. He's nervous, too."

Prowl computed a dozen different ways to take that. Was this business, or…? The uncertainty only made it worse. He hadn't come to any decision when the elevator door opened.

At the soft steps behind him, Jazz knew the picture he presented. Turned away, helm lowered, one pede crossed behind the other, Jazz was the soul of a tinfoil toy, shiny and pretty to look at. Pretty to hear.

"Liked what you heard?" Jazz asked softly.

Prowl came to a polite distance, hands clasped behind his back. "The music here is so different from the broadcast performances."

Jazz gave a pouty frown, turning to better face him. "Not quite what I meant."

"I cannot judge a performance," Prowl said, grimacing at how dry he sounded even to himself. "I have never heard the kind of songs you—design? Create. Create?"

"Compose." Jazz now favored him with a smile.

"'Compose'," Prowl said, adding the new definition to his lexicon. "I enjoyed it. And would like to hear more.

"Probably another few breem. Give 'em a chance to rest."

Prowl didn't understand. He analyzed Jazz's tone, the mood of the mechs in the club, the slow tempo of the song.

"You are…providing rest and shelter to them," he said slowly. "Even through the music."

"Especially the music," Jazz said. "The right song's got power, soothes the spark."

Jazz set the cube back on the bar, glancing down to make sure it didn't fall, then using that movement to slowly tilt his helm to gaze up at Prowl. He would have had to gaze up at him anyway, being more than a frame shorter, but he looked up at Prowl as if offering something vulnerable in himself.

"Brings in folk who might not normally drop by," he murmured, lifting his hand as if to touch Prowl's hood. Then, thinking better of it, kept his hand to himself, gracing his own hood.

"I'm glad you did come," Jazz said in a breathy vent.

Prowl somehow stood more rigid.

Jazz curled his fingertips, afraid he'd pushed too far. Was he being too eager? Too obvious an enticement for an Enforcer?

"I also came to apologize," Prowl said.

"'Apologize?" Jazz echoed.

For barging into his club making demands? Treating Jazz's friends like scrap? Trespassing where Prowl wasn't wanted? Jazz squashed the questions flat before he ruined the moment.

"What for?" he asked.

"Praetorian told me what he said to you." Prowl saw Jazz's lack of recognition. "The senate guard who searched this place."

The one who'd tried to proposition Jazz into performing his more tactile functions as an entertainer. Jazz put his hand to his face, embarrassed at the memory.

"...oh."

"He had no right to say any of that to you," Prowl said, taking a step closer. "He was trying to get at me, but…you were caught in the middle."

There was a pause. Jazz wasn't sure what to say. To accept the apology, of course, but...what could he say except-

"Ain't no lie in it," Jazz murmured. "I've done that a few times. In the past. Every entertainer does. Just...part of the job, I guess."

"But, it seems, not one you enjoyed," Prowl said.

Dangerous, dangerous to even suggest that. Was Prowl trying to lure him into admitting guilt? Prowl stood on a razor's edge of understanding and entrapment. And Jazz stood at the edge of taking Dead End on his offer to hide the corpse. If Prowl said the wrong word, gave a hint of aggression…

"S'my function," Jazz said.

He hesitated.

"...no. Not one I enjoyed."

A heresy to admit it. Jazz studied Prowl's face, the doubt and worry there.

"I…think I understand," Prowl said. "There are things—"

Prowl stopped himself. Jazz guessed what he'd been about to say. There were things in anyone's function that they'd hate. Things an Enforcer might hate to do…might run away from and warn a friend about. Might apologize for. Might wish they never had to do. Jazz emembered Prowl at the tower party, the awkward Enforcer chided for being too honest.

But they couldn't say such things out loud. Not when they didn't trust the other mech. Not entirely. Not yet.

Once again, Jazz's fingertips touched his hood and traced delicately up his throat cables. Something about the soft, pliable cords always caught the optic of any mech in sight. Jazz vented in, swelling his hood,

"An entertainer…sometimes has to do things he doesn't like to talk about. I suppose it's the same for anyone. I…I shouldn't complain."

He began to turn away. Like clockwork, Prowl reached out and caught his wrist, holding him so he couldn't turn. Jazz gave in, letting himself be held, parting his lips with a faint intake.

Prowl froze, startled at himself.

Jazz almost laughed at how easy this was. He let his surprise turn into an inviting smile, covering with his hand Prowl's fingers on his wrist before the other mech could let go.

"You shouldn't have to do those things," Prowl said in a rush.

They were only inches apart. As the moment stretched, Prowl grew aware of how close he'd come to Jazz, aware of how much taller he was, aware of how Jazz fit neatly against him. Aware of Jazz's vents over his fingers. Aware of Jazz's optics, the hint of light behind the glowing visor.

"If you don't want to," Prowl said.

Jazz rose up on his pedes. He touched Prowl's arm, leaning away so slightly, letting his helm fall back. Prowl's vents warmed his cheek.

"What if I want to…?" Jazz murmured. "This time."

Prowl hesitated. Regulations flashed in front of him—do not fraternize, do not mix work and pleasure, do not abuse his authority, do not let down his guard, do not trust anyone—

"…if you want to," Jazz said, and leaned into Prowl's arms. Even as he said it, he tensed. Prowl might push him away, drop him, step back in disgust. He held his vent, tensing in case Prowl moved to strike him.

Prowl cupped his face, bent, and took the offered kiss.

Jazz's spark pulsed in victory.

And he paused.

This soft touch was not what he'd expected.

Prowl was an Enforcer. Where was push? the crush? the insistent glossa forced into his mouth? Where was the tightened grip, the hand yanking Jazz flush against Prowl's frame?

Why didn't this hurt?

Why did it feel warm?

"You're trembling," Prowl said.

Jazz stiffened, caught in Prowl's arms. He put his hands on Prowl's hood, pushing back, startled by his own reactions. His engines revved—his gyros were tilted so that he felt like he would fall if Prowl hadn't been holding him up. He ran hot and cold, and there was something in Prowl's optics that held him enrapt, something in his vents that drew him in, until his sensors registered nothing but the larger bot overwhelming the world around him.

"I'm…it just…" Jazz looked up at Prowl. "I don't know. I don't…"

Prowl's arm tightened just that much under his doorwings. Jazz vented in too hard, wincing—sure the pain would come.

"It's all right," Prowl said. "I wouldn't hurt you."

His hold relaxed, easing Jazz back on his pedes, guiding him so he didn't lose his balance. Jazz found the bar behind himself, holding the edge tight until the room stopped spinning.

"That…" Jazz swallowed. "I…that never happened before. Sorry, I didn't—"

"Don't apologize," Prowl said, smiling. "I know how sensitive these damn wings are."

Jazz took a long, deep vent, facing the window. Not what he meant. And not about to admit it.

"I guess you would," he said, forcing a laugh. "Don't know how you handle it, having them out where anyone might grab them."

"Mechs generally don't attack Enforcers," Prowl said. "And the the sensory array is valuable enough to justify the risk. Sometimes the scans are…"

Prowl fell silent. Jazz half-expected the static touch of a scan over his frame. Instead the mere suggestion of a scan lingered in the air, the ghost of a touch over his chrome and plasticene.

The memory of Prowl's previous scan was fresh between them both. Prowl had played the part of an officious investigator swinging his authority around, and now he shifted uncomfortably. The chime of Prowl's internal chronometer saved them from the awkward silence.

"In fact…" Prowl sighed, standing straight. "I'm afraid I was not able to free very much time this shift. I was able to see your performance, but I will need to return to my duties. Unless there was any reason to remain…?"

Did he mean…? Jazz's faceplate reddened as he thought Prowl was asking to… No. Prowl's look was all business once again, withdrawing into his function. No, Prowl didn't intend any tactile or interfacing. Prowl had to return to searching for—what had he been investigating? It had been the decal…or was it the assassination now?

Jazz stomped his pede in frustration. One kiss should not have done this to him. Focus, focus. He was Prowl's informant. He needed information to keep Prowl coming around. He needed to give him something. Anything.

"I…I might have something," Jazz said. "Ain't much. Ain't a vid or anything."

"Yes?" Prowl asked, surprised.

"…those decals," Jazz said. "The purple, stylized thing. I've seen them on a few mechs. Don't know who they were. But I know the mech they were talking to. One of Mirage's…well, not his friend. But he knows him."

"The Towers are locked up tight," Prowl said regretfully. "It will be some time before I can gain access again."

"…Langston," Jazz said. "Tower mech. He's been trying to get some kind of hunting preserve or something, I don't know, just what I hear when I'm invited to sing."

"Langston," Prowl said. "The name is helpful. Where did you meet him?"

Jazz bit his lip. And looked down.

"Please don't ask. It's…not something I'm proud of."

Prowl pressed his mouth flat.

"Another tower party?"

Jazz shook his helm. He grit his denta, tensing up as he fought the urge—

"Business district. Don't remember the place. I…"

He stumbled over the words, an excuse, a lie, anything, think, come on, think—Prowl was watching, studying his face—intelligent, perceptive, dangerous Prowl—

"I wasn't myself," Jazz said. "I had…something to drink. That night was a blur..."

Truth made out of lies. None of it was false, and it painted a picture of a singer, smaller than the mechs surrounding him, shiny and alluring and vulnerable.

Prowl reached out, his hand hesitating just short of touching him. And then he caressed Jazz's cheek with his knuckles.

"Langston," Prowl repeated. "One of Mirage's acquaintances, but not a friend. Known in the business district. Thank you, Jazz. You are an unexpected font of information."

Jazz grimaced. "I don't know how much more use I'll be to you. Ain't got any more'n that."

Prowl paused. Then he smiled with a faint laugh.

"I forget mechs don't see my side of this work. An informant doesn't often yield up so many secrets in a such amount of time. You have been nothing less than a treasure trove…in many ways." Prowl gave a small shrug. "I hope that, even if you never hear anything else, I may still come by?"

Why did that make Jazz's face warm under Prowl's fingertips? This was what he did to other mechs, luring them in and stringing them along for influence, information, little gifts, and sometimes no more than the pleasure of being able to lead them on…until he cut the string.

But now, as Prowl gave him a polite nod and backed away a step, retreating to the elevator without pushing for anything more, Jazz felt a tug he hadn't expected.

He was wrapping Prowl around his little finger, true. But he found himself increasingly tangled in a little knot.