The surface of Cybertron reflected the stars and caught the glimmer of the nebula drifting by. The planet spun through galactic eddies, itself a mote on the cosmic tides of the pink and red nebula. From the crystal towers clustered in the center of the grandest cities, the planet sailed like a ship through a black ocean.
The spires of the Senate, the business high rises, the condominiums and plazas and crystal gardens of the wealthy elite sprawled out in comfortable excess, awash in an undimmed, silver glow.
Past that were the dented apartments, covered parking lots, rusted tenements, scrapyards and offices that had long since fallen into disrepair—all buckling under the weight of a millenia of neglect. Roofs sagged and cracked, walls crumbled, floors collapsed, and the destitute mechs inside huddled inside, protected at least from the worst of Cybertron's weather patterns.
For those with a paid subscription, news stations blasted a warning across the bottom of the screen in a scroll of ticker feed:
ACID RAIN - IACON, PRAXUS, NYON. 2 JOOR. WARNING - ACID RAIN - IACON, PRAXUS, NYON. 2 JOOR. WARNING
The sirens started late in the shift—the first and only warning the rest of the city would receive. One, two, twelve—tiny drops began to fall, striking sensors embedded across Iacon. Thunder rumbled overhead, following flashes of lightning that revealed the darkness actually thick cloud cover stained red.
Mechs had seconds to flee into shelter, an open shop, an open parking lot, huddled together as they watched rain sweep the streets, watched the unlucky mechs, the ones just inches from safety. First sparks between the joints, the involuntary twitches and jerks, then collapse, spasms, electric screams. Then stillness. Steel melting into the road. A last grinding cry as the machinery broke down. Then the frame grayed out and the spark dimmed as the mech dissolved.
Two joor later, the clouds drifted by. Rain flowed down gutters, gathered in cisterns, ate through the pipes and wells meant to collect them, finding new routes through the lower levels of Cybertron. Beneath the planet's shell of tangled roads, pools of acid rain gathered in pockets of still pools, covered over by grime and tar and ash until it looked the same as any other bit of pavement. Rain collected in broken steel girders, in torn insulation insulation, cavities in the superstructure, steadily eating a path into the understructure.
Lost highways, forgotten lanes and buildings long since covered with new roads, new towers…the understructure was the dirty, beating heart of the planet. Empties, criminals, smugglers and mechs who wanted to escape the society above—they all moved through the hazy smog.
Jazz saw them in the distance, spotted their highbeams flickering between the girders and struts, just like they saw his own lights, and in mutual silent agreement, they avoided one another.
You still alive down there?
Jazz laughed despite himself. He maneuvered through a tight junction between broken pavement impaled by a fallen radio tower. In a bit of playfulness, he cartwheeled over the worn hole and paced along the tower strut like a tight rope walker.
S'just a walk in the park, he answered. Almost there. How you holding up? You sounding a bit weak.
Liar, Blaster said. I've got Rewind dedicated to signal strength.
Behind the teasing, Blaster's latest playlist spun in electro-synthemagnetic sound. Jazz could only hear its echoes—the key wandered high, then dropped low, a steady pulse that whispered the lyrics across the miles.
I've been riding this road for a million turns of the galaxy
Still searching for you
I've never given up hope
You have to be close
The stars blur past — thoughts of you crash into me
Jazz bent at the waist, delicately catching the steel beam in his hands, leaning forward, finding equilibrium—held himself upside down, staring at the void below, endless meters into the early layers of the planet. Then he brought one pede across, then the other, turning a gentle wheel and coming back on his pedes.
Almost there, Jazz said again. You sure he's coming this way?
Jazz, I love you like a twin. I am not checking that schedule one more time.
Jazz scoffed—Blaster would if he'd asked—but there was no need. Functionism was nothing, absolutely nothing, if not predictable.
The elite senate Autobots had embraced the new faith that gave them permission to lord their rank above the common mechs. Tower mechs had the credits and assets to ignore the rules, but the bots in the tenements, the factory cogs, the service bots and file pushers…they chafed at their life-long stations. A millenia of filing and data management, cargo long-hauls and street sweeping, galled all but the most fanatical calculators.
Those bots needed constant reinforcement. And functionist priests were there to enforce the faith.
Jazz arrived with time to spare. The incendiary rounds were easy to plant—vorn of junked machinery, tangled cables and broken girders made for convenient lodges—but it took longer to make his way back the way he'd come. He was no suicide bomber. He'd trigger everything when he was clear.
I see them, Blaster said, outwardly dancing in time with the laser show around him, mimicking some of the moves of the femmes below. He's got five escorts with him.
Collateral damage that Jazz was fine with.
Patch me in? he asked.
Blaster had shared the feed before he finished asking. Jazz grabbed onto anything around him, steadying himself as his optics suddenly saw the first van, the priest in his cruiser, and two heavy vehicles in case anyone tried to fight. Jazz tilted his helm, considering that. The last two were warbuilds—small diaclone-frames, but the thick armor and mounted canons left no doubt. They were the religious branch of Enforcers come to root out disobedience.
Since when do warbuilds join the enforcers, he wondered, and push the whole 'cog in a machine' shindig?
Blaster had no answer for him. The convoy was close to the explosives. In a moment, they would ride over. His spark skipped a beat. The music struck an off-note. Blaster couldn't vent. For a moment, he cut his reception so he wouldn't have to watch.
Jazz—Jazz, you gotta—if you're going to—
Jazz ignited the payload all at once.
Incendiary rounds lit up flashcord that exploded in a sharp line, a circle neatly cookie-cut from the road. The lead van transformed and caught the edge in his hand, but the rest of the convoy plummeted into the darkness. There were screams—from the priest shrieking down in a jumble with the second van. The two vehicles in the back transformed—one caught a girder and caught the warbuild in front of him.
"—Ah'm too heavy!" one yelled. "Drop me—"
"I'm not guzzling all this fuel for nothing, you damn—"
Jazz didn't care if they got away. He ignored their struggling in favor of the dramatic drop of the priest and his cruiser. They fell from the light into the gloom, plunging past where he stood and down into the depths below.
The tumbling cruiser struck the ancient, broken road and ripped in half, toppling in two pieces spilling energon and oil. The frame grayed out in an instant, and the pieces landed on the priest who'd fallen in a deep pool of acid rain.
Mission complete. No matter how long it took for the priest to die, Jazz's job here was done.
Electric screams and glitching cries for help followed Jazz as he turned and started back, doing another handstand and cartwheel across the void.
The cartwheel saved his helm.
Sharp points scraping down steel was his only warning as something lunged past him, never expecting its prey to playfully do a somersault in the darkness.
He came up into a sprint. Something that didn't run on pedes or drive—a cadence of four beats drove faster, padding over fallen masonry and beams. He transformed and hit full speed, slowing only to risk taking a sharp turn, coming up on brittle pavement. The road shuddered under his wheels, cracking, crumbling, and he lay on the speed even harder.
Rule of street racing 101 was lighten the load. He burned up energon, used all his coolant. He drove on exposed rebar that vibrated dangerously under his wheels, scraping his rear axle. Whatever was behind him wasn't slowing down either, and something raked at his wheelwell, aimed at his tire again, missed, again, missed, again—almost—
The word for today, Jazz thought, is 'almost'.
He exploded out of the culvert where he'd entered, transforming in midair, upside down as he took aim, pedes on the street as he fired, sliding backward as his shots missed, missed, missed—
—struck the feline-shaped cassette full in the face, sending it backward with a snap. It landed in a heap at the lip of the culvert and didn't move.
Jazz didn't stop to look. Transforming again, he gripped the road and sped the other way as fast as he could. He was several blocks away before he could chance looking in his rearview to see if it was on his aft.
He didn't see it at all. It wasn't where it had fallen, it wasn't on the road, it wasn't anywhere.
He drove long miles after that, risking refueling with cheap energon that would burn later, looking over his shoulder as he bought just enough coolant to get him home. Only after changing his armor color to matte to gleaming black to white, taking numerous circles, mixing through the heavy traffic of the business district—finally he returned to the Neon Eclipse.
The club was quiet. It was shift change, and Blaster had left his cassettes to reset the soundboard. The femmes were off for the next two shifts. The doors were closed and the queue gone, and Beachcomber helped Skids sweep up and clear empty cubes. Jazz warned his bots to keep an optic out and went up to the lounge, collapsing on the long couch against the wall.
Long seconds passed. Jazz's overdrive systems began to properly cool, shift into a lower gear, slowing more and more as his frame began self-repair. The mutilated bones of Cybertron had run his tires ragged, had left his claws dulled, his circuits painfully hot. Wisps of steam rose from his fuel coils and tanks, and he dragged in a deep vent, shivering in the cool air.
He heard a groan to his right.
Blaster sat with his pedes outstretched on the floor, leaning against the side of the couch, one arm flung over his optics.
"That…Primus," Blaster said. "Are you all right?"
Jazz folded his arms and lay his helm down.
"The others," he said, suddenly weary and heavy as lead. "Did they make it?"
"The escorts?" Blaster vented in once. "Yeah. Ran off together."
Jazz considered that. Then shut his optics.
"Bodyguards who let a priest die. I'd run off, too."
The air conditioner droned overhead as the fan turned slowly. Iacon's glow turned into a glare against the window as the planet turned to face the nebula core. Jazz reached out to lower the blinds. Long, thin shadows fell across the room over both of them.
"The priest died?" Blaster asked.
Jazz nodded once.
"His cruiser, too."
Blaster brought his pedes up, resting his elbows on his knees. He stared at a distant spot well beyond Iacon.
"Sluice," Jazz whispered. "I'm sorry, mech."
Blaster furrowed his optic ridges, confusion pushing through his mood. He turned his helm toward Jazz, though not enough to actually see him.
"What?" Blaster heaved another vent. "Why?"
"You shouldn'a had to see that," Jazz said.
"Dumb-aft," Blaster muttered. "Not like I didn't know what you do. What we do. Not like I don't see the news. The aftermath."
"It ain't that," Jazz said. "It ain't…I dunno…I mean, if you don't…"
"Be a total hypocrite if I balked at the first spilled oil I see," Blaster said. "Not like they didn't deserve everything they got. It's just…they assign Enforcers to the priests, don't they?"
Jazz half-shrugged. "Slagged if I know."
Neither spoke. Climbing laboriously to his pedes, Blaster took a long vent. The shadows washed over him, dark and light playing over his faceplate as he went to the bar and took a hit of cheap ethyl.
"Hell with it. My cassettes can do the pre-show. I'm gonna go catch a recharge. See you in a couple shifts."
From the corner of his optic, Jazz watched him go. He spent a long time watching the empty space by the door, listening to the fan spinning overhead. The light from the window slowly passed over him as the planet passed through the nebula, and he managed a short, fitful recharge on the couch.
When he woke, the light was gone. Cybertron was dark once again, and he had an appointment to keep.
He didn't have to drive far. The streets were empty after a rainfall, with pavement covered in dangerous slicks that could slag a mech's tires to the rim. The cleaners had been through, washing solvent ahead of them, but Jazz had to be careful to avoid getting burned.
The farther from the pleasure district he drove, the farther uptown he went, the cleaner the roads became. Three, sometimes even four cleaners went through to make sure the business bots didn't singe their tires. By the time he reached the office, he felt safe enough to drive with Blaster's playlist in his audios.
I've never known a beat that can make my spark skip
You have to be out here somewhere
I know you're somewhere out there
A beat keeps on skipping
My tires are slipping — thoughts of you crash into me
Finally he arrived. The Box Bolt lay under the shadow of the great highway, at the edge of fifty lanes of planetary traffic. Always a hive of cargo trucks coming to refuel and pass inspection, the depot also served as a place that offered a cup of hot tar and synthoil to warm the coils for the long haul. And, nestled in the back, was a credit transfer and courier office.
Surprisingly empty for this time of shift, the counter stood beside the main entrance with rows of small boxes built into the walls, all of them numbered for deliveries. Jazz gave the buzzer a gentle push, then leaned against the counter and waited.
The moment dragged. Jazz began to drum his fingers on the steel countertop, bopping his helm to the beat in his spark. His pede tapped the floor. As the seconds stretched, he did a little shimmy, a turn, moving for an invisible audience.
"Mm…make my spark skip…you have to be out here somewhere…"
The lights flickered overhead, highlighting the grime and dust covering every surface. He shut his optics, did another turn. The lights were really the flashing lasers of Blaster's show, the stage lights shining different colors as he swayed, lifted his arms, finding the rhythm.
"…beat keeps on slipping, my tires are slipping…"
He almost felt it—the strings lifting his spark, the choir singing, the flash overhead timed perfectly to the crash of percussion, the deep peal of bells. And his own voice, Chamber Harmonic's prodigy entered in the Tower competition. The other contestants quailed before the crowd's judgment, but he thrived on the pressure, he thrived—
"…still searching for you, ain't giving up hope…"
There was a low laugh and the sound of the credits being tallied up at the register.
"A solo performance. Should I tip?"
Like a curtain coming down, the dream vanished back into his memory. Jazz came around, leaning his hip against the counter.
"Ah, couldn't hardly do that, mixing business and pleasure like that. What I owe you?"
"Let's see…"
Wearing a nametag labeled Blurr, the blue and white bot pulled up the list of deliveries, then counted down the rows of post boxes.
"You're really lucky 'cause I just brought this one in—wasn't due for another couple shifts, but the snarl on the highway made it easier to cut across, slide in under the fifty-lane. Probably why there aren't that many mechs in right now. I don't suppose—"
He pulled the the box out and checked the slip.
"Aw, nuts."
"Something wrong?"
"It hasn't been scanned," Blurr said. "Not properly. And the Enforcer here won't be back for another shift."
"Enforcer?" Jazz stood a little straighter. "Since when do y'all have an Enforcer stationed here?"
"We've always had one out there scanning the cargo bays" Blurr said. "But after what happened last shift, he's supposed to do the small packages, too. It's just the usual officer they got doing the convoy inspections, but the lazy slag doesn't want to get off his aft at the best of times…"
Someone was coming up behind them. Jazz felt the irritation that he might be put off to the side, waiting for bureaucracy to catch up while Blurr tended to another customer. Wouldn't have been so bad except the line here could grow out the door on a busy shift. Jazz wasn't built to stand around for long.
Jazz gave a vent. "Hell. This package wasn't a rush job, but I do gotta get some turnaround on business, y'know? I wonder if—"
"Perhaps I may help?"
Jazz's back vents flared at the familiar voice, and his joints froze for an instant. The bot behind him came up to stand at the counter, nodding once at Blurr and Jazz.
"Why, Mr. Special Investigations," he said, forcing himself to relax. "What're you doing in a li'l side-street motor pool?"
Beside him, Prowl favored him with a smile that said he had Jazz's doorwings in a vise and he knew it. Worse, he stood a helm and a half taller than Jazz and flared his own doorwings to better loom over him.
"Hardly side-street when it's off the main highway," Prowl said smoothly. "The courier office here is normally too small to worry over, but after last shift, that is no longer the case."
Jazz frowned, annoyed that he had to tilt his helm to look him in the optics.
"What happened last shift?"
Prowl visibly reset his audios as if he'd misheard.
"You…don't know? It's been all over the news."
"I've been clearing ticker tape outta the vent systems after Blaster's last party," Jazz said. "Ain't seen nothing for the last shift an' a half. What happened?"
"…a Priest of Functionism was assassinated," Prowl said slowly. "Killed in the street."
Prowl studied Jazz closely—the ripple of shock through Jazz. His quickened breath. The light rise of his throat cables. His—
Prowl's engines rumbled in quiet frustration. He couldn't see Jazz's optics. Inconclusive.
"I…didn't think they ever left their temple," Jazz murmured.
"Not a high priest," Prowl said quickly. "One of their parish functionaries was making his rounds with his escort and there was an explosion."
"Someone lobbed a bomb at 'em?" Jazz said. "In the middle of the street? I thought that's what their bodyguards were for—transform and take the shot all in one go."
Prowl cleared his intake once.
"…I am unaware of the details of the investigation," Prowl said. "It is not my jurisdiction nor my current focus."
Liar, Jazz thought. You say one thing and your optics say another. Ain't your jurisdiction, but you sure as slag got some inside scoop there.
"It was bad," Blurr said, bringing the package out of the mailbox and ringing it up. "Footage from the security feeds got uploaded almost as soon as it happened. You can see everything from like five angles."
Prowl winced and turned his helm. "'Everything'?"
Blurr nodded once, sharing his grimace. "Yeah, I know. Acid rain's bad down there, but…that was deliberate. Ain't no other way."
"Acid rain?" Jazz asked. "Izzat what the bomb was made of?"
"Priest fell like twenty floors into a huge mess of rain," Blurr said. "It wasn't pretty. Whoever blew up the street knew what he was doing."
"And that is why all packages are being scanned," Prowl said. "A wide net to try to find any hint to the perpetrator."
Jazz paid the couple of credits for his package, then turned and offered it up at Prowl, holding it in his cupped hands.
"A hell of a wide net," Jazz said. "But Iacon's pretty huge. Gonna be hard to find just one mech."
"Indeed." Prowl put his hands under Jazz's, holding them with a surprisingly light touch, lifting them just a little closer to his scan array. "But we must try."
The scan took only a moment, a tactile crackle of static electricity that washed over the small box and over Jazz's fingers. He realized that Prowl was examining the exterior of his hands and arms, feeling for armaments and warbuild assets—thicker armor, double plating, the usual.
"Hey now," Jazz said, smiling in confusion at the deeper touch and readjusting his grip.
Instantly, Prowl's hands locked around his wrists—
Jazz didn't try to pull away. Prowl frowned, confused at his reaction.
Jazz's smile didn't fade. He turned his hand, elegantly reaching his longer fingers along the side of the box despite how much it hurt to twist in that direction, and released the catch. The top opened, revealing a small component and a sheet of clear acetate.
"Ain't nothing special about me," Jazz said. "Just an old dancer with bad optics is all."
"I don't believe that for a minute," Prowl said, "but…there does not seem to be any danger."
A moment passed. He visibly commanded himself to release Jazz's hands.
"'Bad optics'?" he echoed. "Is that why you wear the visor?"
"Partly," Jazz said, taking the component from the box. "My supplier found a good replacement part, sent it over rush. Ratchet can put it in."
"You use the free clinic?" Prowl said.
"It's cheap," Jazz said. "Mostly. Gotta save where I can."
He held up the acetate sheet for Prowl's perusal. His fingers trembled ever so slightly as the enforcer read it, lighting up the letters with an electric pulse.
"To Jazz, my best customer. I've got leads on three more parts, but this is the one I could find right now. Have your little physician friend put you together. I'll send along more once I receive confirmation that this one works. Follow your function—A3."
Prowl followed along what was obviously a bill—Optical Component 289423, series T, technical specs of common mined titanium, class rating z, energon flow lead. Core tab: 23A2. Connector .535. Cost: 985 credits.
"Three more parts?" Prowl gave a soft vent and placed the bill back in the box. "My…apologies that this intrusion was necessary. I hope you recover your far vision."
Now Jazz was surprised. "You know the components?"
"They are a favorite target of murderers to disable their victims." Prowl shrugged. "I downloaded the schematics of all known optics to better identify perpetrators based on their mode of attack."
"'Downloaded all'…?" Jazz echoed.
The amount of memory that would take…and Prowl said it like the cortex space was negligible. Like anyone could process that amount of data. What else did he have stored in there? How much was he capable of processing?
Dangerous—this mech was dangerous. Jazz wondered if he'd made a terrible error in letting the Enforcer read the bill…but no, Prowl was giving back the box and making no rush to grab him again. The bill was just a list of technical components. Nothing more.
Jazz vented out in relief, subspacing the box, and he gave Prowl a polite goodbye, waved to Blurr, and left the depot. At the door, he briefly glanced back over his shoulder, but Prowl was chatting with Blurr, nodding and apparently promising something regarding the empty seat where the regular Enforcer agent was supposed to sit.
Jazz swallowed down his nerves and rolled out, heading under the highway as he started toward Ratchet's office. And he considered his new orders. The coordinates and times were hidden in the component specs, but the devil was in Jazz's details.
Common mined titanium - the target was in charge of mining operations.
Class rating z - the target was the highest ranking senator class.
Energon flow lead — his target helmed the energon flows from the mines.
Jazz's next target was Senator Decimus.