Iacon ground to a halt, placed under lockdown that saw every mech confined to their recharge bays. Access ramps to the great highway locked immediately. The fifty lanes of traffic sped by, grateful they hadn't exited into the city yet. Shipments and cargo continued on to distant Polyhex, business shut down, and the flow of energon ground to a halt. Nothing moved except the senate as it clenched its collective fist to smash into the city.

The Senate Guard swept through Iacon in a show of force, carrying the Prime's banners as they marched through the business district and the surrounding apartment complexes. A senator was dead, and woe to anyone who harbored the criminals responsible.

The curfew imposed on the lower sectors, slums, and pleasure district kept mechs confined to their residences. Arrest was almost impossible to avoid. All frames, alt-modes, and functions were registered with the government. After studying footage of the murder, Senate guards matched faceplates to names and went door to door. Some of the mechs at the protest had fled into the substructure, to take their chances among the acid rain and other dangers. But many remained.

Jazz figured the wisest course of action was whatever an innocent mech would do. The club always needed cleaning. He put the news feed on the main monitor, just in case anything developed. Then he gathered all the spilled cubes, put the chairs on the tables, and began mopping the floors.

Which was how Prowl found him, alone in a dark corner.

Jazz didn't startle when he heard the front door open. He hadn't locked up in case one of his mechs risked sneaking in. And he recognized the steps—familiar, unhurried, confident in their right to be there. Jazz kept working, dunking the mop in solvent and working grime out of the seams between the tiles.

"Jazz," Prowl said by way of greeting. He glanced around the club. Fluorescent lights glowed overhead, flickering unsteadily. "…oh."

Jazz wrung out the mop, dunked it again. He glanced over his shoulder.

"Sure different with the lights on, huh?" He sighed and kept working. "Can't see the dirt when it's dark."

Prowl heard the self-deprecation in his voice. He did not immediately respond, taking a long moment to study the stage, the bar and its mirror and drinks, the DJ booth and soundboard in the corner above the dance floor. Now he could see the black ceiling supports, the long ventilation ducts, and the catwalk that Blaster would use to reach his perch. There were scuffs on the stage. Some of the chairs were mismatched. The plastic of the floor tracklights had yellowed with age.

"I was going to say it felt empty." Prowl pulled up the recording of the club while it was in full swing, with music, lights, and dancing. "You do well with what you have to work with."

That pulled a laugh out of Jazz. He put the mop back and leaned against it, giving Prowl a once-over.

"Now that's the most charitable I've ever heard someone put it."

He wasn't subtle in looking over Prowl. In the harsh light, he saw the heavy grime on Prowl's pedes—good thing he hadn't done the hall yet—his unsteady sway, the way he leaned more heavily on one of the chair backs. Prowl reset his optics too quickly, and his vents were audibly heavy, laboring in his filtration system.

"You look like you ain't had a chance to recharge," Jazz commented.

Prowl lowered his helm slightly, nodding once.

"I just started my fourth shift. I was going to rest after Mirage—ah. After the party. But then the incident happened, and…"

Prowl's voice trailed off. Jazz followed his look toward the bar. Between the ceiling and the top of the mirror, two large monitors would normally display laser mandalas to accompany Blaster's music. Today, they had an oversized view of live footage as the Senate guards patrolled the streets, searching for anyone from the protests.

The news showed the arrest of the first mech found—an Empty, already stripped down to his protoform, missing armor and his wheels. He'd even had to sell his faceplate, leaving him with a skeletal mass of exposed gears and joints as he was dragged out from the highway underpass he'd recharged beneath.

The Senate guard stomped a heavy pede on his back, pressing him down into the grime and the last slick of acid rain in the gutter. Then came two rounds—one plasma bullet through the pelvic support, then one between the shoulders. With arms and pedes methodically disabled, the Empty was now dragged, shrieking, behind the unit of guards.

Bringing up the rear, several Enforcers walked behind, merely in tow, additional hands if something went wrong. Praxians all of them, they kept their door wings pulled in tight, walked with no expression. They all looked like they were about to witness an execution…which they probably were. The end of the road for any arrested mechs was undoubtedly the smelting pool.

Jazz straightened.

"Wait…ain't that you up there?"

Too weary to stand, Prowl pulled the chair out and sank down into it.

"Yes," he said. "That was a half a shift ago. We were just released."

Jazz frowned, but he didn't argue. The broadcast said the footage was live. Instead it was on quite a delay. If he had to hazard a guess, it would be to avoid showing anyone escaping or the empty recharge bays they burst into. Cybertron's News Network would only show what the Senate would allow.

"Well, not that I mind the visit," Jazz said, "but I figure you're more in the mood for recharge and refuel."

Prowl waved one hand. That wasn't important.

" Mirage said he'd found something for me, and—but then this happened, and…"

So that was how Mirage had lured Prowl up to the soiree. But neither Mirage nor Jazz had expected this reaction from the Senate, and now Prowl was without his bait. The tower district was locked up—no one in or out.

Jazz looked at Prowl for a moment. The Enforcer sagged in his seat, optics half shut, with the faint shimmer of heatwaves off his armor. He was probably low on coolant. And yet here he was, following a lead in the scrap of time he had.

Jazz had wanted to save the data packet for a little insurance in case Prowl came crawling through his business. But there was also something to be gained by establishing friendly ties with an Enforcer, especially a Special Investigator, while the city went insane.

"Give me a moment," Jazz said, heading behind the bar. "No reason we can't be civilized about this."

With a furrowed optic ridge, Prowl watched him pull two cubes and prepare a slurry of shimmering blue energon and opalescent white coolant that floated on the top, foaming in a mild chemical reaction. Adding a handful of amethyst dust to the top, Jazz brought both drinks over and sat down, putting the second cube in front of Prowl.

Prowl hesitated.

"I'm not sure I can continue taking these in good conscience," he said. "There are regulations against gifts and exchanges with…"

His voice trailed off. With criminals, fugitives, and persons of interest went unsaid.

"Now now, no need to go borrowing trouble," Jazz said. "I am assuming I'm not a criminal under arrest."

Prowl half-smiled. "No. But you are an informant—well, a potential informant, and as such, an automatic person of interest—"

"Well then, there ain't no reason to avoid a drink or two," Jazz said. "I am always interesting. It's my function. And I think I know what that drunk tower glitch was gonna give you."

He brought the data packet out of subspace, laying it on the table. He also set his recording to play on the monitors.

"But, uh, better drink up first. It ain't something to watch on empty fuel cells."

He was gratified that Prowl listened, watching the screens over the top of his cube.

As the scene of illegal street fighting played out, Jazz stared into his cube as the amethyst bits melted into the mix. But his look slowly rose, hidden behind his visor, to watch the expression on Prowl's face. First came the announcer's voice, the shaky camera of the mech jostled by warbuilds as he made his way to the ring. Then the challenger's introduction. Then the reigning champion, the cheers, the explosion of shrieking steel and oil.

Prowl didn't flinch. His optics narrowed as he focused on the dead mech, then widened as he caught the flash of the purple decal.

"So prominently displayed on the hood," Prowl murmured. "At least, I think it's a hood. But if these are all warbuilds, his altform could be anything. And a mace…that isn't common."

The video ended. Jazz slid the packet the rest of the way to Prowl, where it vanished into the Enforcer's hand.

"It's Tarn," Jazz said as if it explained everything. "I don't know how much it'll help you, but—"

"But it isn't Tarn," Prowl said with wide-optics. "It's Kaon."

"…what?" Jazz looked at the screen, but it had frozen on the last frame of the understructure. "That's just…mech, they're all…"

His voice trailed off. Yes, the announcer had said the victor was from Tarn, but the challenger was Nyon. And Tarn wasn't the only place that had underground fighting going on.

"Tarn is known for its illegal gladiator circuit," Prowl said. "But the announcer is a Praxian, and there are civilian mechs mingled among the warbuilds. Tarn was warbuild since its inception—there are some civilians, but to go among such heavy mechs who aren't used to small vehicles? When they're focused on the fight? That's asking to get stepped on. It might have been Nyon, but Nyon has no levels in their understructure that would allow warbuilds without considerable demolition, and that arena is too well supported for anything but original construction. And—"

Jazz listened with half an audio. He recorded the conversation, following what Prowl was saying, but he was fascinated by how the Enforcer came alive in his seat. Prowl sat straight, replaying the video and pointing out the identifying features of the dark support struts, the embossed patterns on the steel floor, dual-railings for both civilians and warbuilds. Prowl's mouth strayed into the most sincere smile Jazz had seen on him.

Jazz guessed it was less due to the energon and more because of the challenge presented.

"—finally there is the degraded condition of the recording itself. Pixel loss, sound distortion, color loss…they must be near a source of substantial heat or radiation. Warbuild armor is designed to mitigate this, but the civilians do not seem negatively effected. They must be accustomed and modified to some degree…"

Prowl's voice faded and trailed off. He cleared his intake, rumbling his engine.

"My apologies. I know I tend to ramble."

"Not at all." Jazz shook his helm. "You got all that in one go. I never would'a realized any of that."

Jazz took a long sip. What he was sharing wasn't the highest priced energon, but it was still refined, and he wanted it to last.

"Recorders usually go out of their way to hide where an illegal vid is made," Prowl said.

Jazz vented in, shifting in his seat.

"Of course, turning over the vid is not illegal," Prowl rushed to say. "Information is extremely valuable and appreciated."

Jazz waved off his assurances. "Not a thing, not a thing. Although it's good to hear you say it. Just…why is this decal so important?"

Prowl stared at him for a long moment.

"Do you serve warbuilds here?"

With a soft sound of understanding, Jazz leaned back in his seat, rapping the table with his knuckles.

"So that's it."

He waved a hand around at the club, motioning at the low seats, the thin catwalk, the elevator no larger than would fit a van.

"Everything here is up to Iacon code. Nothing rated over ten tons. Not that there's many warbuilds to cater to."

Prowl nodded once. "There isn't a strong military presence here, save for the reserves kept on the outskirts. There might be some living in the understructure, but they would not have an easy time in such cramped quarters. And it is…heresy."

The word sounded strange coming from Prowl. He grimaced as he said it, and he finished the cube as if to wash the taste from his mouth.

"Kaon manages," Jazz said. "Somehow."

"Only because they keep their living quarters separate," Prowl said. "And even then, the priests must regularly enforce adherence to the commandments. Of course warbuilds would chafe under their restrictions."

"'The glory of Tarn'," Jazz recalled from the video.

"Tarn is a now another word for warbuild," Prowl said. "You will inform me if you discover anything else?"

Jazz appreciated that Prowl framed that as a question.

"Sure. If, uh, if you promise no one ever finds out 'bout me or Mirage doing the talking."

"I understand," Prowl said with a nod. "If you want, I can arrange for a fake raid, perhaps make a show arrest."

Jazz almost rejected that out of hand—even the semblance of a raid meant Enforcers scanning things and tripping over sensitive material. Accidents could happen, and perhaps the Enforcers would prefer something to hold over his helm instead of relying on his loyalty. Prowl seemed okay so far. Jazz wouldn't trust any other Enforcer.

But there were more pleasant ways to deflect what was possibly a sincere offer of goodwill.

"Now now, everyone knows this club's just a good time. We bring in enough to get by. But one raid and all the unscrupulous types'll start thinking I'll deal junk on the side." He shook his helm—his smile never changed. "Besides, we serve all types. The occasional Enforcer's just as welcome, too."

Prowl narrowed his optics. Was this an attempt at bribery? Jazz had offered nothing untoward, merely stating that Prowl was allowed in the door.

No. Jazz had said that Prowl was welcome at the door.

"Not many establishments would be happy to have an Enforcer visit," Prowl said.

"Not many honest Enforcers on the beat," Jazz said. "'Sides, you already heard me sing once. Stick around, might see it again."

"You perform here?" Prowl visibly reset, sitting straight and facing Jazz. "On stage?"

Jazz gave him a look. "Well, it is my club."

"No, I didn't…I was in here before. What you performed for Mirage was nothing like the music I heard playing in here."

"Oh, that. Yeah, Blaster gets the floor most shifts, but on special occasions, when I have time, the inclination, a little special motivation…I take the floor."

"Like…what you sang for Mirage?"

There was no mistaking the way Prowl stared at him. Jazz saw that look in every crowd hungry for more of what he was serving. His prey had hold of the bait. Time to gently, gently reel him in.

"Sometimes." Jazz let his smile soften, and he turned his helm so that he seemed self-conscious about being watched. Behind his visor, he studied Prowl. "Sometimes it's something everyone's listening to. Sometimes…just whatever wants to come out of me."

"…I think I would like to hear that," Prowl said. "What you performed…it was—I don't know. I don't know how to put that in words. They never played anything like that on the radio."

"The big orchestra pieces are what's sanctioned," Jazz said. "Little things, they don't get approved for the airwaves."

"That isn't—"

Prowl caught himself.

"That is…the greater good for the most mechs performing their function. I admit, if I were to listen to you while I work, I would be very distracted."

"That's quite the compliment," Jazz said, pitching his voice lower. "If this lockdown lets up anytime soon, I think everyone'll be more in the mood for something quiet."

"The lockdown will not last much longer," Prowl said. "Just…be careful until then. I will mark this facility as searched. I can at least spare you the rough handling that a senate guard might subject you to."

Jazz's lips parted in surprise. "That…thank you. Are they coming this way?"

"They'll be down this street in a joor," Prowl said. "Just keep cleaning. If it's already marked, they should just send an Enforcer or two inside to check."

"Gotcha. Thanks, Prowl. I mean it."

Prowl tilted his helm at the frozen video on the screen. "I cannot break laws or regulations, but informants should be protected as best I can."

He bid Jazz farewell, rolling away with the data packet in his subspace. Jazz watched him go, not toward the city but toward the slums. To warn the empties? To meet with other informants? Or to investigate leads while the senate guard kept the city clamped shut?

Jazz turned off the video and hid the high priced energon and ingredients under the tiles beneath the bar,. He was still mopping the main dance floor when the senate guard arrived. True to Prowl's word, their search was quick—they didn't even notice the seam in the walls for the elevator. And they only took a few handfuls of cheap grade energon and coolant.

Jazz made no complaint. He stood still and waited, watching them from behind his visor. There were only two guards looking around—the one in charge stood next to him just in case the lone bot tried to take out three Senate Guard on his own.

"You're one of that special investigator's," the commander said. "Registration says you're an entertainer."

Knowing better than to speak, Jazz nodded twice and didn't meet his look. His kept his helm respectfully lowered.

"What kind of entertainer?"

The leer wasn't as pronounced as it could have been. Jazz judged it to be curiosity, faint interest. A probe, nothing more.

"Singing and dancing," Jazz said. "Never was much good at the…other stuff."

"Really?" The guard looked at him a moment longer, then shrugged and began hustling his mechs out. "Ah well. You'll fit that stick-up-the-aft to a T then."

Jazz didn't move. The senate guard were satisfied—no contraband, no warbuilds, and no hint of an attitude. They swept out with little comment, and Jazz noticed that they hadn't even dragged in all that much grime.

He spent the rest of the shift catching up on cleaning. Replacing burned out diodes. Polishing the mirror. Rinsing out cubes. And thinking.

On a whim, as he locked up the doors and set the alarms, he looked around the club again. He'd shut off all the lights so that there was only the glow of the machinery on standby. There was Blaster's soundboard and radio hookup, the video system, and the security monitors. Nothing was patched into the planetary communication grid. Nothing should have been transmitting out.

He took the elevator up to the private and flopped back on the long couch.

"Primus help me," he said out loud, "if I sound like a glitch for trying this, but…you out there? Red?"

He waited a long moment. As nothing happened, he muttered something about losing his circuits and settled in for a recharge.

The video monitor across the room crackled on with a hiss of static. Red Alert appeared, his image skipping frames as signal interference flashed behind him.

"Not Primus, but the next best thing," Red Alert said. "I didn't think you'd ask so openly."

Now that Jazz had Red Alert there, he wasn't sure what to say.

"Been a long shift, figured what the hell?" Jazz didn't bother sitting up. "Didn't think you were actually listening."

"You had that enforcer in with you. Of course I was listening. He's dangerous. I hope you realize that."

"I know, I know…"

"Even I hadn't figured out that it was Kaon. To grasp that so quickly after just one look—you better hope he never sees you in your other paint jobs. He'll recognize your frame-visor combo immediately."

That turned Jazz's mood even worse.

"Bot, what do you even care? Why all'a this sneaking around? You been all 'mysterious mech' when you could've just stuck around a little longer at the shindig, filled us in more."

Red Alert vented in annoyance. "I commandeered one of your friend's hard light projectors, it wasn't one of my own. I didn't realize he wouldn't keep them properly charged."

The indignation in his voice was so strong that Jazz had to laugh.

"Half-charged…yeah, that's m'lord to a T."

"You haven't received your next orders yet, have you?"

Jazz scoffed. "You'd know if I had. I think one dead mech is more than enough for a few shifts."

"…it wasn't just one."

Jazz didn't answer. He put his arm over his face—then flinched when his visor got in the way. With a grumble, he unlocked the visor and let it drop to the floor.

Red Alert leaned to look, but he couldn't see Jazz's face as he threw his arm over his optics, blocking out the light.

"You said you wanted to help," Jazz muttered. "So help."

There was a long silence. Jazz didn't peek, content to listen to the fan whirling in the background.

"You're not on a mission," Red Alert said, "so I can't help that way. But…how much do you know about your master?"

Jazz half-shrugged. "Put me back together once. Still paying him back for that."

Red Alert didn't respond.

"What, is he good? Evil?" Jazz vented. "More evil'n I know about, anyway."

"He's old," Red Alert said, choosing his words deliberately. "Very old. I don't think you're the only pawn he has on the board. But you're the most active one right now."

"Yay for being teacher's pet." Jazz turned on his side, his back to the screen. "Tell me something I don't know. Who's that cassette belong to?"

"Good question. I've felt him a few times before. I'm not the only one moving through the communications grid. We've only spoken once. You'll know it when you hear him. He doesn't sound like any mech I've met before. Hollow voice."

Jazz grunted. "Long as I don't see his little pet again."

"Be careful. He has at least two others that I know about."

Jazz buried his faceplate in the soft vinyl of the couch with a groan. After a moment, the static shut off. Red Alert was no longer going to speak. Jazz knew he was still listening.

He soon fell into recharge, slipping into fitful dreams of singing as his club melted down around him.

When he awoke, he found that he'd slept for two shifts. A half dozen message notifications blared in his cortex—nothing from A3, so it was nothing that couldn't wait. He fumbled for his visor, feeling along the ground until he found it, snapping it back in place.

As every joint ached and creaked, he put his pedes on the floor and dragged himself to the bar, prepping a cube of oil. The blue and pink lights of the city shone against the black backdrop of space, drowning out the stars. Only the gleam of distant jets broke the horizon. A few flashing Enforcer sirens drove along the empty streets.

One by one, he checked the messages.

Iacon Authority: Curfew and lockdown have been extended until further notice. Remain at your recharge bays. Information leading to the arrest of the murderers responsible for the Senate Massacre carries a reward of twenty thousand credits. Read receipt confirmed.

Cybertron News Network: Due to high demand, premiums for up-to-the-nanosecond news footage will be rising. Do nothing to accept the new charges.

"'Nanosecond' my aft," Jazz muttered.

Blaster: Have you heard anything? I'm running low on fuel for my cassettes. Might risk sneaking to the Eclipse if it goes on much longer.

Prowl: The lockdown will lift in another five cycles. Curfew will lift in one cycle. No one may leave the city until lockdown ceases, but all normal business activity may resume then.

Jazz read the eagerness between the lines and sent a non-priority reply, promising a show. He copied it to Blaster with a request that he work the lights and sound. The acknowledging ping was an instant yes.

Ratchet: Sparkplug, get in here. Got a package, express medical delivery.

So his master had found a way around the package inspections. Despite his recharge, Jazz felt suddenly weary to his protoform.