The chaos of Ratchet's clinic was a sweet distraction.
In the shadow of the business district, a row of low-rent, one-room apartments provided recharge berths for the workers, waiters, and cleaning bots that worked in the high rises. Beneath the condominiums and penthouses, the mechs getting by caught a quick cube from a corner depot and grumbled about rising prices as they rolled home.
Injured mechs—nursing a cracked chassis, twisted wiring, or burnt out components—instead rolled to the walk-in clinic. On the wrong side of the lane behind the skyscrapers, mechs formed a line along the sidewalk, sitting against the gray walls and counting the vents before the pain would stop.
Jazz drove past the line, driving under burnt out lights, acutely aware of the looks of every mech following him up to the door. Close to the clinic, the streetlights flickered unsteadily and warm light poured out of the open door. Jazz transformed and came up onto the easement in one step, knocking once and waiting.
A green and white femme peered around the corner, leaning back to see him. She nodded once, motioning him in.
"Ratchet's in the office," she said, already turning to her patient, soldering a circuit into a mech's helm. "He's waiting for you."
"Thank you muchly," Jazz said, moving past. He went by three more mechs waiting on a bench, and he ignored the sounds of a saw and drill coming from the closed door in the hall. The office lay in the very back, and he knocked once more.
"Oh, quit knocking and just get in here..."
Jazz winced. Ratchet sounded in a rare temper.
"Just me," Jazz said as came in.
The office was cramped with old datapads yellowed from time, spare parts in small boxes, and a locked wall safe that no doubt held precious energon, coolant, oil, and other fluids. Their supplies were organized but stacked in boxes, held here so no one could simply walk off with them, but it turned the office into a glorified supply closet. And the mech inside sweltered in the rising heat, smacking a datapad with exposed wires, reading a glitched screen.
"…yeah, yeah." Ratchet tossed the datapad into the 'spare parts' pile. "Siddown. Sooner you get done, sooner I can work that line down."
Jazz didn't argue. The chair beside the workstation creaked with his weight. Beside him, Ratchet locked the door, then set another lock. No one would walk in accidentally.
Ratchet pulled over a small box isolated on his desk, opening the top, reaching in, pulling out another case with a hermetic seal, then pulling the plasticene wrapping away from the inner casing. Padded with shaped foam, the box held a wafer-thin circuit board and a set of snap-in cards so thin as to be transparent.
Don't vent, Ratchet said. No air flow, got it?
Got it, boss. Feel like they'll blow away if I look at 'em wrong.
They might, Ratchet said. I've never seen anything this fancy.
He paused.
Are you sure you don't want another medic to do this? Ratchet asked. As much as we could use the money, if I screw this up—
Ain't no one I trust more'n you, Jazz said. Fancy doctor wouldn't bother with me nohow.
More like they would ask questions, Ratchet chuckled, giving him a look. You know, it'd be a lot cheaper and safer to just fix your optics. Or the visor.
Not an option, Jazz said. This visor's one of a kind.
And the optics?
Ain't even worth thinking about.
Ratchet held his look a moment, then gave a rueful shake of his helm. It's your choice. Just a shame to force you to wear that all the time.
Jazz didn't answer. After it'd been affixed, he'd never lifted the visor around anyone else. Only his master unit knew what lay underneath, and Jazz was under firm, fatherly, incontrovertible orders to keep it on.
He figured Ratchet might know what the visor hid. The medic knew every in and out of the complex circuitry in the visor and exactly how it fit into his helm. Ratchet had the schematics and technical details.
There was a reason Ratchet looked only at him in pity.
One at a time, using a set of fine clamps, Ratchet set the cards into the circuit board, snapping the microscopic clamps over each edge. They went in easy, lying flat and beeping in confirmation.
Damn, Ratchet said.
Is something wrong? Jazz started.
No, no. Just…I've forgotten what it's like to work with good, new pieces.
Ratchet motioned for Jazz to lean close. He unlocked a port on the visor, untethering the old circuit board and pulling it free.
Jazz briefly went blind as his visor dimmed and flickered. He bit his lip, tightening his clasped hands. He could feel Ratchet's hand, he could hear the drill in the surgery room, just focus on that, just focus on—
—the wind howling across the desert as his optics sparked and melted down his face—
"There we go," Ratchet said, setting the circuit deep into the visor, tethering it and sending current down the lines. He locked it in place and closed up the thin compartment. "How's that?"
Jazz stared at distant point far beyond the wall, past Iacon—stared into memory of a smokey crater of strewn jet pieces and his own slagged tires. He took a long vent and shuddered as he let it out, catching halfway in his throat.
Ratchet had to repeat himself and call Jazz's name twice before he straightened.
"The display's a ton clearer," Jazz said as if nothing had happened. "The glyphs are sharper. I can even—"
Jazz paused. He looked at Ratchet, who wore his usual weary exasperation. Normally Jazz's visor displayed the time, CPU usage and calculated distances—the normal heads-up display, plus the combat program of a firing solution when activated.
But a new function narrowed in on Ratchet and provided a rapid readout.
RatchetExcelsior Frame Class
Medic—2nd class (demoted)
Maintains Iacon Clinic 23 - District ⋢
Sparked to Tower Seneca
Civil Incident: expunged
Function Reduced due to temperament
Loading data…
Jazz's jaw dropped at the new information rolling in small blue font beside Ratchet's face. And Ratchet didn't react. Which meant Ratchet couldn't see the information writ backward on the visor's front.
"Seeing a lot more clearly?" Ratchet asked, lifting his hand to touch the plasticene.
To Jazz, the visor projected wisps of movement anticipating what Ratchet was reaching for. Just a light tap on the edge, nudging a raised port back into place.
"…yeah," Jazz said breathlessly. "Lot clearer now. Damn. You all see like this and I just been blind the whole time?"
"I don't think you're seeing anything like what we see," Ratchet said, turning and clearing his workstation of the pieces. "Do you mind if I keep the old circuitboard? I can use it for spare electrodes."
"S'yours," Jazz said automatically. "What's the damage, doc'?"
Ratchet hesitated, his hand hovering over the datapad with the work tallied up—receiving the materials, prep work, pre-cleaning, circuitry removal and reinstall. The price wasn't insignificant. But the line of mechs outside would need parts that would eat the whole amount with nothing left over. But maybe if he overcharged for just a little more, just enough to order a few new components…
Ratchet sighed.
"Parts and labor," Ratchet said, handing over the datapad without any extras. "Sign and it's done."
Jazz scanned the list. It was all clean and above board and, as everything with Ratchet, painfully honest.
Jazz half-smiled. He added an item to the list and another zero, then signed and handed it back.
Ratchet looked over the list. And chuckled once.
"No questions at all," he nodded. "Jazz…you didn't need to—"
Although he protested faintly, he was already putting the datapad away in the desk.
"I know," Jazz said. "But it's never a given, and it's a real service. It should be rewarded."
Jazz stood, wobbling as his the floor tilted under him. Ratchet already had his hand out, taking Jazz's arm to steady him.
"New visors always warp the ground," Ratchet said. "Hang onto the wall on the way out."
"I'll be good," Jazz assured him, leaving the office, but he kept one hand on the wall at shoulder height. When he went through the hall this time, the sound of the drill had stopped and the Paradron femme was already working on another patient. He walked out, keenly aware of everyone's optics on him.
Outside on the sidewalk, he scanned the pavement, watching the curb roll toward him. His gyros overcompensated, and he grabbed the streetlamp.
"I was right, it is you!"
A femme taller than him waved from the side of the clinic.
FirestarDirajat Frame Class
Entertainer—3rd class (provisional)
Dances at Iacon Club ≆22 - District ⊓
Sparked to Depot 117
Civil Incidents: overenergized and disorderly
Function Dancer (per guarantor—final legislation pending)
Loading data…
The list continued on as she stepped out of line. He stopped the scrolling information and tested his steps, tilted to one side and over-correcting too hard.
"Ooh, you had to get work done, huh?" She offered her hand but he waved it off, shaking his helm.
"'Preciate it, but I gotta let my circuits figure out what it's doing the hard way." He tapped his visor. "Just a little optical repair. Lucky I found a working part. What're you doing here?"
She shrugged, glancing at the two mechs still sitting by her pedes. "I stayed with these two during the lockdown. Poor bot got all messed up right before. I'm glad we got him here in one piece."
Jazz followed her look, giving the mech a polite nod. And froze.
Even without the influx of information, Jazz recognized the mech he'd nearly sent tumbling into acid. So the two warbuild escorts had survived…but this one looked streaked with acid rain. Only the thick armor, half hidden by the ragged cloak over his shoulder, had saved him from a seared protoform.
IronhideWANTED: REWARD
Diaclone Frame Class
Escort—Warbuild (escaped)
Sparked Tarn Depot 88b2
Slaved to Functional . _NuncioVio (deceased)
Civil Incidents: Abandoned Post, Aided Assassination of Priest, Treason
WARNING: HEAVY ARMOR, HEAVY ARMAMENTS
Loading data…
"They're my crew," Firestar said, "my ride or die. Had to pay back the fav—"
"No getting back in line!" said the mech behind her. "You stepped out of line. You want back in, you go to the back."
"Slag off," she snapped over her shoulder. "I ain't even getting repairs."
"You stepped out of—"
"You keep it up," said Firestar, taking a heavy step and cowing the mech to back down. "You'll need more repairs than you came in with."
"Best keep your voice down," Jazz said softly. "I don't think your friend here's looking for a fight."
Ironhide didn't look at him. He barely moved, intent on fading into the background. Then he lifted his helm, wincing as the movement pulled at the streaks around his shoulder.
"…Ah 'appreciate that," Ironhide muttered. "Ain't feeling so hot since…well."
Since the road had exploded out from under him, Jazz thought. And him and his friend hit a patch of acid and almost died.
Something in Jazz wrenched.
"'Least you got a few shifts off," he said. "Doctor's orders."
Ironhide grinned without humor. "More'n that. Let's just say I think I'm fired."
Jazz was going to let that pass. He glanced at the femme holding Ironhide, her helm on his shoulder—
ChromiaDiaclone-civi Frame Class
Escort — (private)
Employment unregistered
Sparked to Depot 117
Civil Incidents: none
Loading data…
—and the weariness in her arms, her optics. She matched Ironhide for how worn their frames looked, sparked ages ago, he'd bet. Her hands were wrapped in the same ragged cloth as his cloak. She'd probably tried treating him herself and burned her hands.
"Izzat so?" Jazz said. "Well, I got a club that always needs a little more security. I can give you some shifts when you get back on your pedes."
Ironhide reset his optics. Then narrowed his gaze.
"What's the catch?"
"The catch is no questions asked," Jazz said. "Either way. Have Firestar bring you around. You can take a look, make up your mind then."
"You go around offering jobs to all the messed up mechs?" Ironhide asked.
Jazz knelt, leaning a little closer. Watching Ironhide's hands—they could have curled around Jazz's helm and crushed him without a thought.
"No," Jazz said softly so no one but Chromia could hear. "So you think on that. You got Firestar's say-so. S'good enough for me."
Ironhide didn't have the look of a mech grateful for the offer. Jobs were drying up, and the jobs still to be had paid less and less energon, but Ironhide looked confident that he could take care of himself. He looked at Jazz as if he were looking at a virus—enticing on the outside, all sharp edges on the inside.
Chromia leaned up, whispering in his audio. Ironhide listened, then nodded once at her, murmuring back.
"I'll think about it," Ironhide said finally. "Ain't like I don't appreciate the offer. Just skittish is all."
"Ain't we all."
Jazz gave him an understanding nod, and then he was up, waving to Firestar, transforming back onto the road.
The trip home was quick-the highway had been scoured and cleaned as if nothing had ever happened.
When he arrived at the Neon Eclipse, he nodded to Beachcomber, passing Sunstreak and Sideswipe on either side of the elevator. The club was in full swing, Blaster and his cassettes set the lasers spinning around the dance floor, and his VIP lounge was a welcome respite from the crowd.
But he had business before he could finally recharge.
"Yo, Red," he said, mixing a drink. "You there?"
There was a pause. He added one of Wheeljack's tablets and let it froth on the energon's surface, waiting for the additive to absorb.
The video screen snapped on, ran static, then blurred into Red Alert's face. The resolution glitched and split-screened, one side running faster than the other, and then smoothed back into one image with scratchy gray artifacts flashing by.
"Did you want something?" Red Alert asked. "Signal's bouncing around pretty bad right now."
"Anything I should know about?" Jazz asked.
"Just the nebula we're going through," Red Alert said. "Lingering radiation always boosts the static. It'll be better once we're out near the Decimus mine…"
Red Alert's voice trailed off and he grimaced. "Oh. You mean if there's anything new. Um. Nothing important, really."
Now that was a surprise. Jazz found himself smiling, not at what Red Alert said but at the self-consciousness as he said it. The other mech had seemed so confident in blackmailing Mirage, spying on Jazz. This little social faux pas was almost charming.
"Oh, none of that," Jazz said, taking a long sip. "If you think it's important, so do I. I didn't even know we were heading through a nebula. Can't see it none out there."
He motioned at the window with the cube. The sky was black with no stars, lit only by the neon signs and the distant lights of Iacon.
"Because we're right in the middle of it," Red Alert said. "Cybertron's floating through the far edge now. We'll be through in a few shifts, and then we should reach the mines."
"Hm." Jazz turned away from the window, resting his arms on the bar behind him. "Mines? Like energon mines?"
Red Alert nodded. "Exactly. The ones Senator Decimus was in charge of. Moving there is supposed to get more energon to the planet faster, ease the fuel shortages."
Jazz chuckled knowingly. "But…?"
"But moving the planet was pretty expensive in itself. And there's warbuilds doing the mining. I don't know…" Red Alert frowned, leaning back in his seat. "I don't know. Something feels wrong. There are other mines. Why come here?"
"Decimus was planning something before he died?"
"So why continue after he was torn apart?"
Jazz frowned. "Then…the senate's planning some kind'a revenge?"
"But we were already heading there before he died." Red Alert gave Jazz a look. "Unless your master unit is part of the senate?"
Jazz shook his helm. "Nah. Don't think so. But I wouldn't be surprised if he knew what the senate was doing before they did."
Red Alert tapped the arms of his chair, deep in thought. "I don't suppose you've spoken to your Enforcer? Any information from him?"
"He ain't my anything," Jazz said, souring and heading to the couch. He flopped back, careful to subspace his doorwings. "And no, thank you very much."
Red Alert gave a small smile. "Touchy. He isn't even that shiny. His red and blue clash."
That Jazz bit off his automatic response of "they do not" didn't make him any happier. He touched his visor, about to remove it and set it on the floor. Then he paused, thought a moment, and stared at Red Alert.
Nothing. No information. No frame type. No incidents. Not even his name.
"You're really a ghost in the machine, huh?" Jazz asked.
"…that visor upgrade did something," Red Alert said slowly, realizing Jazz was trying to scan him. "Are you tapped into the Enforcer database?"
"Dunno," Jazz said. "Got some info on other bots, stuff I don't think is public. Don't know where it's coming from."
"…did you look in a mirror?"
Jazz scoffed. "Now why would I go and do something silly like that? Ruin a perfectly good mood."
Red Alert frowned. "Do you know—"
The screen flickered quickly and Red Alert vanished. The background switched to the standard Enforcer station walls of ceramic tiles, chipped and grayed from age. Prowl's gaze briefly swept the lounge to settle on Jazz, startled and frozen at the bar, the cube caught in his tightened grip.
"Are you available?" Prowl demanded. "I must ask a favor of you."
"Give a bot some warning 'fore you pop into his private chambers," Jazz grumbled. "I might've had my chassis open."
The thought of glimpsing Jazz's protoform made Prowl stumble, but only briefly.
"New developments have made this matter urgent," Prowl said. "I am on my way to the Neon Eclipse."
"Whoa, whoa," Jazz said. "What's all this—"
"I did not want to demand more of you," Prowl continued. "But the scope and immediacy of my investigation has changed. I must request the memory file involving the mech Langton."
Jazz dropped the cube to break on the floor. His vent caught in his filter, and for a moment, the sudden tension in his joints made his gyros turn too fast. The room tilted around him, and he grabbed the edges of the bar.
He'll hear Langton call me Maestro, Jazz thought. He'll know the place. He'll put it together that's where Ratbat died. He'll…he'll…
The screen flickered—superimposed over Prowl's face was Red Alert nodding with glitched text over the screen. Y̷E̸S̷ ̴S̷A̷Y̴ ̷Y̸E̶S̴ ̵S̶A̷Y̵ Y̷E̸S̷ ̴S̷A̷Y̴ ̷Y̸E̶S̴ ̵S̶A̷Y̵
"I…" Jazz put his hand over his face. "If you really…"
"I would not ask if there was any other choice," Prowl said. "I will find some way to make this up to you."
There it was, finally, the other pede falling, that Enforcer mentality. Prowl was not asking for permission. He didn't even apologize for demanding the memory.
"…only 'cause it's you," Jazz said softly. "Only 'cause it's you."
"I…" Prowl paused, not sure what to say. "I will be there in less than a joor, three breem at most."
The connection clicked off, and Prowl vanished, replaced by Red Alert leaning back in his seat, his fingers moving across his workstation. Jazz now saw some of the scale of Red Alert's personal space—the interface he used also lined the wall and held buttons on the ceiling. Red Alert resembled nothing more than a cyber-archnid in the center of his fiber-optic web.
Jazz swallowed the oil rising in his throat.
"All right," he muttered. "Why'd you tell me to agree to that?"
"Didn't sound like you had much of a choice," Red Alert said. "But if you allow me access, I can cobble together a memory—"
"Give you access?" Jazz felt the room spinning around him, and he sat down hard on the floor. "No, I don't even know who you are. We was just talking before, but this. You might fry my circuits."
"It's a positive field surface connection," Red Alert said as if that should reassure him. "I'll just copy the memory, use some filters, add in emotional layers from your own memories, and he'll never know the difference."
"He's an Enforcer," Jazz said. "He'll know."
"And I'm Red Alert," the other mech said. "He won't."
"I should…run..." Jazz said. "I…I need to get outta here. I got a couple breem…I can get on the highway, get out past the city limits…"
"And try to outrun any jets?" Red Alert said mercilessly. "The whole planet of Enforcers? I'm sending you my terminal address. Link up and I'll do the rest."
Jazz didn't answer, but he settled more fully on the floor, leaning back against the bar.
Red Alert tilted his helm.
"It won't hurt."
Jazz grimaced.
"…promise?"
Red Alert smiled despite himself. "I promise. You'll be safe and sound. Now let me in."
Jazz grit his denta. Just one more risk he'd take doing his master's will. He sent the wireless signal, allowing Red Alert in, tensing in case a virus or databomb or program came through…but he only felt Red Alert's gentle hold as the other mech accessed the memory he offered up. Langton and the bots with the strange purple decals, sitting at a table in the ritzy Platina.
Then the memory was copied, corrupted at the edges, layered over with multiple filters, the mechs inside flipped and pasted on a smoky background.
Jazz's memories were sifted through, his strongest emotions being added to the mix. Red Alert didn't read what he was pulling from, but Jazz knew. He brought his knees to his chest, hands around his pedes, focusing on the black wall behind his couch. The fear came from the jets, but he wasn't there—dammit, he wasn't there—he was here in his room, his club, his berth chamber, and he was alone. This was just an operation, just like having his optics seen to, and Red Alert had been truthful so far.
Jazz looked up at the monitor, but Red Alert had turned off his side so that the screen was blank.
And in the dark mirror surface, Jazz saw his reflection.
J̵a̴zz̴̷J̴un̷k F̵r̶am̵e
Entertainer—1st class
Owns/Performs at Iacon Club ≆22 - District ⊓
Sparked Ia̶c̵o̵n̴ W̶ar̴d̴ #5 (̶obs̵ole̷te)
Civil Incidents: victim of jet reprisals, original parts destroyed, damaged cortex
Function Singer, Dancer, Recreational Interface (per guarantor—final legislation pending)
Loading data…
He shut down his visor so he didn't have to look. Curled, blinded, holding still so he wouldn't fall over—that was how Prowl found him, just as Red Alert's crafted memory finished uploading.