Nine
It would have been funny if it wasn't so… actually, no, it wasn't funny. Nothing about it was funny. He couldn't exhale his intense frustrations in vehicle mode, so he just sat there on the side of the road, inwardly fuming, figuratively speaking of course. He was squeezed in between a 1982 Ford Cortina with a broken hatch back that had been tied to the frame with a dirty frayed rope, and a 1994 Mitsubishi Mirage with a particularly large dent on the front right bumper. The dead tree sticking out of the pavement next to where he sat, occasionally dropping tiny flakes of dirty bark on his intentionally scruffy finish. The tree bore marks on its trunk of multiple poor parking attempts, which may or may not have had anything to do with the dent on the Mirage.
He'd deactivated his olfactory sensors, as war or not, some stenches just could not be tolerated. Mounds of rubbish, some overflowing onto the road, sat along the street at random distances from each other. Some closer than others, likely due to the size encroaching on its neighbouring pile. Most of it wasn't even wrapped. Underneath most of it were the original bins that had long since spewed outwards. Due to the way people were now extremely cautious with objects, constantly looking for stuff to reuse or sell, many of these piles were simply rotting scraps of food and other biological wastes he decided not to ponder upon further. A scan was definitely out of the question. He did wonder how humans could live like this, especially with the historical knowledge that such filth spread disease. This certainly wasn't one of the richer neighbourhoods, but it wasn't the poorest, so collection services should have at least paid them a visit monthly. Or perhaps it'd become so foul even they had their limits. Likely perhaps, was the trucks just didn't have capacity. Or they were robbed one too many times. Various reasons could be considered for such muck.
Other than the quite common mountains of trash spotted up the road, the street wasn't all that disorderly. The cars were parked where cars should be, there were no illegal jobs. Only one of the homes was abandoned, and that was likely due to the fact it bore the tell-tale signs of a decent inferno at some point, possibly in the last year. The top windows were blackened or broken outwards, and a stale smell of charcoal would catch itself on the wind occasionally. The ground floor was well boarded, the doors, windows, and a heavy padlock fastened the newish chain that held the likely supposed-to-be-temporary, but firmly secured, mesh fence. Chances were good that the owners were capable of affording of not being desperate enough to have to sell it and were waiting to renovate. Of course, the council usually didn't care any which way if buildings in such condition ended up being a swatters abode or a drug den. Local bodies generally had larger problems to contend with.
Rich, poor or otherwise, like everywhere else this street bore no greenery. Just deceased plants of various species. The trees bore testament to a long and in some cases, literally, fruitful lives before environmental hazards and acid rain ended them. There had been strips of grass along the edges of the curb, but their time had long since passed. Now it was just dried dirt with the occasional thing sticking out from the dead earth that may or may not have been alive at some point in the last 30 years. Strangely, many homes had pot plants of various sizes sitting out the front. And when he considered the term "pot plant" it was more pot and no plant, though some did sprout a dried corpse. Most sat either side of the doors, others on the steps and a few sat out by the letter boxes. It was an odd site to see, especially since fair number of them were relatively clean looking. While not recent purchases, they had been looked after enough that a few did have him wondering. It did add a bit of uniqueness to the properties, a bit of charm to the desolate street. Running through the population directory he had for this street, the demographics were skewed in favour of a more mature group of humans. Humans born before things all went to slag, so, in some ways, perhaps caring for these pots that would never grow anything but good memories, he wondered if it was their way of reaching back to a time they'd never see again. A sort of normality of the blandness that was commonplace in a lifetime so few now could fondly recall. Whatever the explanation, he was happy to see these things. Sparkplug had a big one that he'd lugged in from Primus' knew where to place at the entrance way to the little trailer they had parked outside the Ark. It grew some ugly looking cactus. A plant Sparkplug said even an idiot with no green thumbs like himself could manage to keep alive. That figure of speech certainly earned a few raising of optic ridges.
Contemplating Sparkplug's greenery choices aside, he couldn't really push away the annoyance this situation had elicited from him. He couldn't bust out his favourite holoform, the one that just gelled with him, not in this society, not anymore. Spike had wondered aloud to him that perhaps it was racism. Sure, that was probably part of it, but generally folk of any colour, in expensive looking, highly tailored clothing with fancy sound equipment hanging off got peoples heckles up. Jealously was an ugly thing indeed, and currently, people had no problem acting upon it violently. Of course, none of it was real, including the effects from the arse-whooping that would be handed out. He couldn't even drive into this part of the city, well, most parts of the city, in his Porsche mode. That was just asking for trouble. Too many people struggling financially, too few police, too much anger. This country had fallen into a dark pit courtesy of such rough times, and people really were in it for themselves now. It was an incredibly sad state of affairs, and while he knew he couldn't generalise, humans living in this part of the planet really had lost their sense of authentic community.
So, before he drove out here to this miserable shit hole of a suburb, he adjusted his vehicle mode to a Mazda RX-7, 1990, complete with miscoloured parts, a broken back passenger window with a flap of plastic wrap in its place, and a seriously filthy interior completed with ripped vinyl seats and a torn, faded checked blanket draped over the back.
The fiscally appropriate holoform stood in the door frame of the stereotypically rundown apartment building. It wasn't a huge complex, there were only two residences here. According to city records, the structurally identical properties that lined the street were owned between three different landlords. The guy he was waiting for, however, owned his little nest. Inwardly considering the tedium of waiting for the guy from the top floor to wander down the stairs, likely taking his bloody time, to open the rusted door held shut with a chain, also rusted, but with a bit more strength to it. Wasn't that long ago that he quite enjoyed flipping on the holo and taking a wander down the nooks and crannies off human streets, places a vehicle couldn't really manoeuvre. Now a mix of boredom, paranoia, despair or frustration would saturate one's emotion regulators, how much of what emotion really depended on the bot, of course. The street seemed less congested than usual, perhaps the loiterers were off trying their luck looking for work. The weather wasn't overly disagreeable, despite the warning of an acid rain front coming through, albeit most people did tend to ignore the warnings, as they were often incorrect. With that said, people were far more annoyed by rain coming through without a warning than they were a warning that panned out to be nothing.
Suddenly a face appeared behind the flimsy security door.
"Jazz?"
"Open up, Az, I don't want to be here any longer than possible".
He added a cheeky laugh in the hopes of not coming across as too offensive. This was, after all, the man's home.
The man, older looking, but likely more from his life experience than actual chronological age, bald by choice, wearing a loose-fitting brown turtleneck and a pair of really faded stone washed jeans unlocked the rusting chain and motioned to the structure of light to come through.
"Wasn't really surprised to hear from you".
Az stated bluntly as he re-locked the door, turned and started heading towards the stairs.
Jazz's holoform followed close behind, the Autobot pondering the worth of such an expense when the man could have just come and sat out in the car. But this was his process, if you wanted to speak to this particular human, you holoformed up and ascended the stairs into his little slice of paradise.
Speaking of which, it was a two-bedroom house with a decent sized shared living and dining area, and a surprisingly large and relatively modern kitchen. Clearly, it'd been done up before the collapse but long after the 180-year-old building had been crafted. He seemed to take a minimalistic approach to decorating, with only an Australian flag hanging from the wall. The lounge suit and dinning set were a mish mash of various styles, including some that looked completely homemade, while others were clearly restyled from spare or recycled pieces. The carpet while an unsettling teal, was aged, but clean, tidy. The most notable feature, the drapes. Long, almost pristine looking ruffled strips of a dark maroon velvet like fabric. They were pulled back of course to let as much as the afternoon sun in as possible. Flimsy, but also clean, venetian blinds offered some privacy from the very closely positioned neighbour. A few dents in a few places but given the care at which this man displayed towards his property; it was likely damage that pre-dated his ownership. He walked past the radio sitting on the kitchen bench, midway through Jeremy spoke in class today and turned it off. Jazz liked the song, but again, the man had a process, and a conversation with a radio blaring, however quietly in the background, was considered rude by his standards. It was ironic to think of a man who was extremely fond of dropping the "C word" as having manners, but there it was.
Jazz's hobo-styled looking holoform sat on one of the armchairs, brown with green flowers, or that's what it looked to have once been. It was firmer than he expected, given its age. Next to the chair was a small coffee table with a weathered photo of the man in his younger years, judging by his age and the smiles on the faces of his companions, likely family, it was before the war.
"I haven't heard from her".
He said bluntly as he sat himself down on the furthest spot on the couch. Taking a sip from the teacup hidden momentarily behind the arm rest.
"I honestly didn't expect you to have".
"So why are you here? You know what I know. We talked a blue-streak after she killed the Witwickys".
"I just wanted your opinion, and it wasn't exactly a question I could go asking over a tapped line".
"Oh yeah?"
"Do you think Grenwich was the actual target?"
"Who the fuck knows with that girl? Especially now".
Another sip.
"Mind you, if big, grey and ugly called the shots for that hit then, well, who knows? Probably?"
A larger sip.
"God, I'm sorry Jazz. I wish like fuck I could give you more info".
"It's not so much you giving me more info, Aaron, it's more about whether I can ask questions that jog your old memory box".
"Well, ask away, it's not like I have anything else to do this arvo".
"You could straighten out the dents in those blinds".
Jazz said with the cheekiest grin plastered across his holoform's face.
The Australian threw back his head and laughed loudly.
"Holy fuck! I have tried!"
The man laughed for a good 2 minutes and 13 seconds. Jazz counted. He found it quite delightful, it was seldom one saw a human laugh like this, especially now.
Aaron eventually sighed, calmed down, and took another sip of tea.
"Actually, maybe there is something I can give you".
He stood up and walked towards a chest of drawers sitting behind the couch. He opened one of them and began rustling around through the contents. When he'd found what he thought might be of use he walked back round to Jazz and sat directly opposite him on a table holding an orderly stack of dated newspapers.
What he handed the holoform was a small, brown envelope, it had an address scribbled out and a new one written across the front. It was addressed to her.
"I honestly didn't give this much thought when it arrived, it's happened a few times. She has a friend back in Aussie, sometimes mail goes to her. She rips it open, reads it, then sends it my way, usually in another envelope. Especially since there's so many people looking for her".
"Well, obviously that's not going to be of any help to me. Not like that sheila is stupid enough to give anyone her forwarding address".
"Right you are, my Autobot buddy. But it's the contents of this particular letter you might be interested in".
Jazz's holoform, which could manipulate matter enough to hold objects, opened the flimsy sleeve and removed the contents.
"His name is Xhou Darmawanpaki he was a general, made a really big mess, killed a lot of innocent folk. You know, the usual war mongering shit you come to expect from people who invade your country. For some reason she was in correspondence with him, before she went rogue".
"You've got to be shittin' me! Her? Pen pals with a mass murderer of her own people?"
The man shrugged.
"Dunno. She didn't want any of them executed. Some say it was a throwback to her days as a Catholic school girl coming through, but I think that's bullshit. She had plenty of years in that hell hole to drop those opinions off in the nearest dunny. I think she just wanted them to rot. Life in prison vs. a short drop? Short, sharp, sweet and too the point. I know what I'd take".
He sat back in his chair and rubbed the back of his smooth head, almost like he was expecting to find hair.
"The letter reads like a code, so who knows what she was communicating about with him. He could have been a traitor in the end. Maybe he had info she wanted. Maybe he reached out to her first and this just evolved from that? Honestly couldn't tell you. But this guy was a big cheese, and despite the new government there throwing his arse under the bus, there's still a good chunk of his fellows who think he's a fucking hero".
"There's still people who think she's a fucking hero".
"Hey, fuck you! She is a hero! What she did was valuable to the war effort. Yeah, yeah, she didn't win us the thing, but if she hadn't been there, hadn't done what she did, probably would have taken a lot longer to finish".
"Hey, man, I mean no disrespect! Just saying people think she's a hero too, it's all subjective".
Jazz held his hands up, the baggy sleeves of the dark orange jersey flopping about loosely at his elbows.
"Sorry, Jazz. I didn't mean to get all snippy. It's a sore point for me. For a lot of people. Maybe for him. Hell, I don't even know if he's still alive. That letter's been sitting in the drawer for years, and he wasn't exactly someone I think about enough to want to call in a favour to ask about".
"I can find out easily enough. What about this woman?"
He pointed to the forwarding address.
"Oh, Sally? Nah mate, she died a few years back. Cancer. Of the bowel, I heard. Nasty way to go, messy".
"Sorry, sorry to hear that".
"We weren't friends, not really, just two people who got stuck together in a nasty situation".
"But she was chummy with our little femme fatale?"
"Yeah, I suppose so. I mean, they kept contact after the war, right up until she went off the grid. Maybe she kept up contact somehow after that, they were both smart enough to pull it off, and the authorities sure as hell didn't have the resources to police the mail system. If she was in contact, she never said anything to me about it".
"Is there anyone else I could talk to, about Sally and her chumminess with the colonel?"
"Maybe. Can you give me a few days? I'll need to make some phone calls. You're cool and all, Jazz, but there's not a lot of people in Aussie who'd be happy to have an Autobot show up on their doorstep asking about that woman, heck, even Sally".
Leaning back in the chair he took the final sip of his tea, before resting the cup on his knee.
"What a fucking mess, ay?" Heh, this is what you guys have to look forward to when your little spat ends. All cloak and dagger bullshit, heroes going dark, people covering for other people, communication between people who were once enemies. Shit, she'd probably have slit his throat to the bone if she ever met him during that debacle".
"Fun times".
The holoform looked down at the envelope in his hands.
"You can keep that, if you want".
"No need, I've already copied it to one of my hard drives".
"Of course, you have".
"So, I think this might be the end of our conversation".
"I think you're bang on".
Aaron put the teacup down, stood up and motioned towards the door.
"I'll walk you out, seeing as that's the polite thing to do".
"Very polite".
They walked down the stairs together, stopping at the door as he opened it.
"Your neighbour home?"
Jazz asked, mostly to make conversation as the man fiddled with an overly complicated set of locks.
"Nah, he's a trucker and is currently on the road, won't be back till the end of the month. His missus works at the hospital, I wanna say x-ray tech? Hardly see either of them, which is nice, and I think they feel the same way".
The door opened.
Jazz stepped through, stopped in the doorway then turned his head to face the man.
"Thanks so much, Az, I appreciate it".
"Any time buddy. Just one favour".
"Name it".
"Don't let the humans get close, it'll end up a bloodbath".
The holoform noted the expression on the man's face, it was one of concern with just the slightest hint of fear and affection.
"She was my friend. She saved my life. A lot of lives. People make shitty choices sometimes, and she's made a big one with this whole Decepticon thing, but she's not an overly nasty sheila".
"I'll treat her right".
Jazz walked down the stairs, opened his door, and the holoform disappeared inside. Aaron had already shut the door and began the locking procedure as the Autobot drove away.