It was a semi-routine mission to exchange intel with the Autobot team of guerillas headed by Elita One on Cybertron. Jazz could have pulled rank and sent Bumblebee or Mirage but a leader had to be willing to do anything he'd ask of his underlings... plus he'd drawn the short straw and now he was squeezing through the deeper layers of his mostly-abandoned home planet. And he'd apparently taken a detour through the Tiny Pipes and Cramped Tunnel district on his way back to the space bridge.
He'd never been quite so deep below the surface, even before the war. Even down so far, the planet showed the signs of sickness. A thin film of congealed energon patchworked the plating of the walls, traces of rust hiding in seams and cracks, puddles of foul fluid he had to crawl through. He supposed it could be worse. Elita's nomadic team had set up in a pretty remote area this time and Shockwave's seeker goons and drones hadn't gotten wise yet.
He came to the end of the tube and it opened into a massive chasm. A wound torn deep by some battle or bomb or other long ago. He cycled his vents and swung a leg out to begin the climb down. The tear stretched too wide to backtrack and go around— going down and back up again had to be the quickest route, and Jazz suddenly very much wanted to be back on Earth with his friends and comrades again. It was easier to keep one's thoughts up when one wasn't wallowing alone with them.
Just climb down, one foot and hand at a time, don't think about the old scorch marks, the warped plating, the mangled stubs of what used to be conduits bearing energy and life now dark and— okay, Jazz, keep your cool. Just get across.
A strut of some kind protruding from the chasm wall held his weight just long enough for him to clearly hear the creak of breaking metal— and it snapped. Jazz fell, scrabbling helplessly at the wall to try and catch himself, but he jounced and ricocheted off the various outcroppings like the galaxy's least fun game of pinball, finally smacking his head against a pipe, and careening offline the rest of the way down.
Jazz groaned, his existence narrowed to dents and errors and pain. He felt something touch him— hands, big ones, gently prodding his helm. Struggling to boot the rest of the way up, he batted at the hands.
"Easy, little one. Don't be afraid. I won't harm you."
"Who're you callin' little?" Jazz blustered, though it came out as "hooyercalitl?...nnghfraggit."
The voice, warm and deep, chuckled kindly. "Ah, there's life in you yet, isn't there? Good, good, just hold still a moment more..."
Jazz's optics abruptly came back online, and most of his damage error reports cleared out. There was another mech hovering over him, a fellow easily bigger than Megatron, his face masked. Jazz quickly took stock of the stranger— white optics, unusual. Plating dulled and covered in the same stains and traces of scorches and marks as the plating around them at the bottom of the chasm. He practically blended in. No faction insignia. A neutral? Rare was the occasion when one of those outliers stuck their neck cabling out for the sake of their warring brethren, either Autobot or Decepticon.
"You should be feeling better," the stranger said. "It was a simple fix. Your self-repair can handle it from here."
"Hey, thanks, mech," Jazz said, sitting up gingerly. "That fall could'a had me out for orns. You a medic or something?"
The stranger half-shrugged. "I do what I can." He extended a hand. "I'm curious, though— very few have ventured this close to the Core in a very long time."
Jazz hesitated. He couldn't afford to make any assumptions about this bot's intentions, but he didn't want to seem ungrateful. He took the mech's hand and let him pull him to his feet. "The Core?" he asked, dusting himself off. "How deep are we, exactly?" The chasm hadn't looked like it went that deep.
"Quite deep," the stranger replied. "The First Shrine is only one layer down from here."
Jazz whistled. The First Shrine, also known less reverently as Vector Sigma's Waiting Room, where supplicants hoping to ask for new sparks would keep vigil, waiting their turn for a chance to foster a new Cybertronian life. "A lot deeper than I was shootin' for!" he laughed. "I was only trying to get across this hole, get back to Iacon. Don't suppose you can point me in the right direction, m'mech?"
"You're in luck. There's a main conduit not far from here that will take you all the way up to the first sublayer near the outskirts of Iacon." The stranger's optics seemed to smile at Jazz. "The only quicker route would be teleportation, and I'm afraid that's a bit beyond me at the moment."
Jazz laughed, deciding he liked this mech. Anyone who could keep that kind of attitude in these conditions had to be an okay sort. "That's perfect. Which way?"
"I can take you there myself." The stranger spread his hands, empty palms out. "Truthfully I'd be glad of the company, if you'll indulge a lonely old mechanism for a short while."
Aw, heck. "Lead on, friend," he said. He knew, in the back of his processor, that he was being far too trusting. But if the mech had wanted to do him harm, he'd certainly had the opportunity while Jazz had been out cold. And there was always the chance he was being led into a trap, but... somehow, weirdly, Jazz couldn't bring himself to doubt the stranger. He felt oddly at ease.
"Can't be easy," Jazz ventured, trailing behind the mech, "you the only one down here? For how long?"
"Since long before the war began. Oh, there have been a few who have come here, but... one way or another it would not have been prudent to approach them."
"So why me?" Jazz followed the mech into a side tunnel that was big enough that he didn't have to crawl, but his guide still had to stoop. "Most neutrals aren't exactly thrilled to see us."
The mech shook his head. "How I miss the days when there was no Autobot or Decepticon or neutral. Only Cybertronian." He cast a sad look over his shoulder at Jazz. "I know who you are, Jazz of Protihex, Autobot lieutenant to the Prime. Oh, you've never met me face to face," he said, ducking through a tear in the tunnel wall and gesturing Jazz through. "But I've seen you, heard of your comings and goings."
And Jazz had it on good authority that the seeker flock here spoke of him in hushed harmonics as if he'd been spit forth fully formed from the Unmaker's very smelting pool. "Yeah," he admitted, feeling inexplicably ashamed in this mech's presence. "I know I haven't exactly got the shiniest spark."
The stranger made optic contact over his shoulder. "I don't believe that. By all accounts you've done what you've done in the name of things greater than yourself, to protect others, and to hasten an end to this war. Those are noble intentions."
"Maybe." Jazz looked away from the mech's penetrating gaze. "Just wish those things I do weren't so unpleasant sometimes, noble intent or not." He brushed a hand against a stray scorch mark on the tunnel wall. "Who knows how much of this damage is my doin'. Y'know, it actually seems a little better since the last time I was here? How hopeless are we when the only way for Cybertron to start healing is for the Cybertronians to just leave?"
"Taking the war offworld did mitigate things. Some of the energon wells even show signs of restarting." His guide turned back and continued walking, this time down a considerably larger tunnel. "But I follow your circuit of thought. You fear if everyone returns home they'll only bring the fighting back with them. It's a worry I share, I don't mind telling you."
Jazz followed wordlessly, letting the other mech talk. "Sparks returning to the Well but no petitioners come to Vector Sigma for new ones... our people need this war to end, or it will end us."
"Don't I know it," Jazz muttered morosely. "Believe me, if there was a way to call the whole thing off, I'd be first in line."
"Do you mean that, Jazz?" the stranger asked quietly, turning to face him again.
Jazz drew himself up straight and looked the mech in the optic. "With all my spark."
The stranger nodded to himself, optics again seeming to smile down at Jazz as he grasped the smaller mech's shoulder. "Good." He let go and pointed down the tunnel. "Keep going to the end of this corridor, then turn right and follow the way uphill. It's a straight shot to Iacon from there."
"I really appreciate the assist, m'mech," Jazz said, already moving. "I owe you one. Say, I never did catch your—"
The stranger was gone.
"—name." Jazz scratched at a sensory horn. "Huh. Fast for a big guy." He shrugged and transformed to vehicle mode. It wasn't the weirdest encounter he'd ever had, to be sure, but he'd definitely have to remember to buy the big fellow a cube of good high grade if the bars ever got rebuilt.
"Draw me like one of your French bots."
"GAH." It took everything Sunstreaker had not to haul back and punch the individual lying draped over his berth; it was the last thing he'd expected to see when the door to his quarters slid open after a long shift on patrol. "Frag you, Jazz!"
"Hey, that's not a bad idea," Jazz purred, pleased with himself.
Useless to ask how he'd gotten in here, pointless to ask why. "C'mon, I haven't even been to the washrack yet." Despite the token protest, Sunstreaker palmed the door control behind him and crossed the room to join Jazz on the berth. "When did you get back?"
"About half an hour ago. Gotta file my report still, but it's nothing that can't wait." Jazz wasn't wasting any time. Sunstreaker knew from experience that trips to Cybertron tended to put the Ops mechs in a funk, and Jazz's way of dealing with it was to get nice and open-chested with someone as soon as possible. Sunstreaker could appreciate the feeling.
Sunstreaker let his chestplates part slightly, running a finger down the invisible seam in Jazz's. He traced the minor dings and scratches in Jazz's finish as he climbed atop him, mentally making a note to offer a buffing and wax later. That always made Sunstreaker feel better.
Chestplates separated fully as hands roved freely over plating. Spark chambers extended forward and split open, bathing the half-lit room in shimmering light. Sunstreaker stroked the edge of Jazz's chamber and the Ops mech groaned and shuddered. Jazz reached up and grabbed Sunstreaker's open chestplates, pulling him down.
Their sparks' coronae came into contact with a subsonic hum and a crackling of energy. They held there, the first frissons of pleasure tickling through their sensory nets. It took only a few moments for both sparks to find their synchronous frequency. Then Sunstreaker moved closer, and the sparks merged.
Tales of lovers being able to read minds, hear thoughts, see memories— that was the stuff of silly Golden Age romance holonovellas— but emotional resonance was real enough. Jazz was in a mope, for sure, Sunstreaker could tell, but a hopeful feeling tinged the dismal mood like— the humans called it 'silver lining'. Sunstreaker briefly wondered what the optimism was about. Maybe some juicy bit of intel brought back from Elita, but it wasn't any of his business. Not right now, at any rate, with waves of energy circling through the merge link, steadily pulsing faster, building in intensity.
Outside the merge, Sunstreaker's hands were still busy, cupped over Jazz's sensory horns, fondling them gently. Jazz kept his hands on Sunstreaker's spread chestplates, mindful that his usual habit of scraping fingers through his lover's finish would not be well-received with this particular lover. They clutched each other closer still, chambers almost touching, as the merged sparks spiraled closer to overload. And with a crash of pure pleasure, it struck, the two mechs going rigid, the room filling with light and ripples of stray energy.
Afterglow was the sound of pinging, cooling metal, of cooling fans purring white noise. Sunstreaker pushed up, their sparks separating. There was a twinge as the coronae parted, almost like two soap bubbles' surface tension stretching as they were pulled apart. It wasn't normal— Sunstreaker's chamber hitched at the split-second wobble— but it didn't hurt, so he ignored it.
"Oh, man oh man." Jazz stretched as his chamber shut and receded. "That hit the spot. You do something special this time, Sunny? Feel like I could go for two or three more of those."
Still straddling his prone commander, Sunstreaker barked out a laugh. "Seriously? I'll be lucky if I don't doze off in the washracks."
"Aw."
"And don't you still have to see Prowl? Has Ratchet even checked you over since you got back?" Sunstreaker poked and prodded until Jazz was more or less off the berth and on his feet. "And how did I turn into the responsible one here? You're terrible. Go."
Prowl didn't look up from his monitor when the door opened. "Ratchet really should have been your first stop, Jazz. I take it you have something significant from Elita to rep—"
Jazz, slouched casually in the seat on the other side of the desk, pretended to nonchalantly study the nearby wall as his chestplates fluttered ever so slightly.
Prowl sighed, half-smiling. "All right, then."
"The spectra of thy field electromagnetic is like unto a brown dwarf of Aludra—"
It was Mirage's favorite game. He put a hand between Bluestreak's doorwings and leaned gently in behind him, letting his engine send vibrations down his arm and into the younger mech's backstrut.
"—and a frequency afire with equations divine, o my spark, o star entrapped within—"
He called it private tutoring in classical Towers literature. His lovers called it torture.
...of the best sort, of course.
"—and unto Primus below do I sing harmonies of thy beauty and... a-and..."
"Keep going, you're doing just fine." Mirage had pressed his body inbetween Bluestreak's wings, his fingers tracing out symmetrical glyphs on the inner side of each panel. He mentally placed his bet on the third stanza. Mechs never lasted long where the Ode of Cantus Beta was involved.
"—speak to me of the circumference of thy primary cog and I shall... I sh-shall quote thee mine—" Bluestreak stuttered again as Mirage's hand drifted around and caressed the plating on his abdomen situated directly over the the referenced cog, known these days as the transformation cog. "... no formula I possess knows the mathematics of thy grace, yet I shall know them... and thy... c-crystalli-i-i-ne..."
Mirage paused in nibbling at Bluestreak's neck cabling, pretending to ignore the heat building underneath both their exoplating. "Something wrong?" he cooed innocently. "I know some of these old glyphs are tricky—"
Bluestreak tossed the datapad aside with a growl. He had the presence of processor to step forward before spinning around (whacking your lover across the face with a doorwing was a guaranteed moodkiller) and grabbing Mirage by the helm. Their lips met.
Kissing was a habit some of the Autobots had picked up from the humans. Mirage had been at first dismissive of the weird, fundamentally organic behavior, until one day he'd given in and let Bluestreak demonstrate the little Cybertronian spin that had been applied: electricity. Disengage a few minor relays and a low voltage charge was directed to the flexible metal of one's face. Which, by itself, did nothing, really. But if said charged face made contact with an uncharged one...
Oooh, what a delicious tingle.
Bluestreak's chestplates split eagerly and Mirage opened to welcome him. The two points of contact, face to face and spark to spark, formed a circuit of pure bliss. Mirage grinned without breaking contact, sensing the enthusiasm in the younger mech's mood, fringed as always with a touch of shyness and nervousness. Mirage pushed back with appreciation and acceptance, as always.
Whoever Bluestreak approached for interface was a telling thing; if a battle had gone badly or if he'd had a nasty shock of some kind, he usually asked the more protective and empathetic sparks on board. Trailbreaker, Hoist, even Optimus. But things had been going well of late, and Bluestreak was in a happier, more centered state of mind, and picked his partners for pleasure and fun over comfort. Mirage took it as a compliment; and besides, a confident and content Bluestreak was just a good thing all 'round.
Overload struck, and both mechs' sparks pulsed in time, trying to prolong the moment as long as possible. When it finally ebbed, Mirage gave his lover one last good kiss and stepped back. Was it his imagination, or did it feel as if their sparks seemed reluctant to part, one last little flash of light before separating?
"Whooo." Bluestreak swooned slightly on his feet as Mirage steadied him. "What was that? You saw that— that ...?" and he flicked a hand nebulously at Mirage's chest.
Post-overload Bluestreak was, ironically, not good with words. Mirage arched an ocular ridge. "Oh, just a bit of a flutter. Happened earlier today with Prowl, and he didn't make anything of it. I'm sure it's nothing."
Bluestreak didn't quite frown. "But I could swear I saw something jump into your chamber when we pulled out."
"Probably just a bit of stray energy. I wouldn't give it another thought, really."
"Are you okay?"
"Oh, Blue." Mirage bumped forehelms with him. "You're a delight. Don't worry about it."
Culturally speaking, interfacing was never a complicated thing for Cybertronians. How often, who with, and how public it was was all up to the individuals participating. Earth had necessitated some spoken rules, however, on top of the less defined unspoken ones.
1. Not during your duty shift.
2. Not in front of the humans.
Things were still pretty fast and loose, Cliffjumper's Addendum notwithstanding ("Don't make it weird") and the overall frequency of interfacing waxed and waned with the general mood of the crew from day to day. Sparkplug had figured it out, even if he didn't know the specifics ("Two mechs sneak off to the closet, come back twenty minutes later looking smug. I lived through the seventies. Give me some credit here, Ratch.") and it wasn't unheard of for a quickie to be stolen during on-duty hours. Infractions were generally overlooked as long as it caused no disruptions.
Sideswipe was pretty sure this counted as an infraction. But his business ties were older than the war, and no secrets were in play...
"... so that's ten units of mercury and one of caesium for your updated brewery schematics, and a new high grade recipe." Swindle rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
"Two of caesium." Sideswipe smirked. "I happen to know you're eager to get rid of the stuff, surrounded as you are by all that nice dihydrogen monoxide down there." He knew for a fact that the element in question was a waste by-product of the Nemesis' generators, and the Decepticons couldn't really dispose of it properly without making a mess in the ocean that would do a nice job of pinpointing the sunken ship's location to the humans, who likely wouldn't be nearly as subtle or careful about defending Earth as the Autobots were. Some of the more touchy Earth powers liked to periodically make noise about nuclear weapons where their alien aggressors were concerned, and the Autobots no more wanted their allies harming themselves than the Decepticons wanted to risk being atomized.
"What are you using the stuff for?" Swindle asked. "Surely not as an energon additive. Unless Autobots are into... slimy energon curds as a delicacy."
Sideswipe laughed at the mental image. "Oh, some of it'll go to Perceptor and the other science whizzes for some boring thing or other," he replied nonchalantly, "but the recipe I'm giving you now's got nothing on what I'm cooking up. It'll knock your gears loose, completely curd-free, guaranteed."
"Oho. What would it take to get my servos on that formula, then?"
"Ah-ah, Swindle, it's not ready for public consumption just yet. Just be ready to beg me for a taste when the time comes."
Swindle laughed. "You know, if I didn't have complete faith in your brewing prowess I'd condemn that as unfounded swagger. But for this deal, at least: ten mercury, two caesium. Here's the dead drop location." And he showed Sideswipe a datapad.
Committing the coordinates to memory, Sideswipe touched the screen to add his glyph of agreement. "Schematics and formula specs will be on a secure datapad, like always."
"Excellent!" Swindle subspaced the pad and stood, casually running one hand down the middle of his chestplates. "Shall we seal the deal? C'mon, friend... cast some shadows for old times' sake?"
Sideswipe looked around at their clandestine 'offices of business', a.k.a. a dusty abandoned warehouse, and mentally shrugged. He'd been on cheaper dates.
