Brief warning: Jazz's memories include the implied drugging and taking advantage of someone. It's only implied and alluded to, but I figured I'd warn for it.
In the Neon Eclipse, orange lasers broke into fractal spirals on the walls, glittering over Moonracer on stage and flashing through Wheeljack's cubes. Mechs filled the floor, swaying, drinking, pretending Cybertron wasn't starving. Blaster's songs drowned out the clatter of steel pedes on steel floors, his cassettes serving as extra hands to work the soundboard and light show. Below him, Sideswipe and Sunstreak dragged apart two mechs starting to throw punches, throwing them out of the front door, sending a brief flash of light over the waiting crowd.
Just the sparkles over Moonracer's frame could have sent Prowl crashing.
He kept one hand on the wall and locked his gaze on the floor as he threaded through the crowd, muting the higher and lower ends of his audio receptors. When he reached the elevator, it was already open. He turned, leaning against the wall with a deep sigh, and saw Firestar pushing the button for him, blowing him a kiss as the doors shut.
Going up meant he saw the whole club suddenly rolling below him, and he had to turn his helm, shut his optics. He couldn't crash here. He hadn't crashed on the job in a vorn. Certainly not since attaining his rank.
Stepping out into the lounge was a relief. Dark walls, the familiar outline of Iacon on the horizon, and no movement.
Just Jazz on the floor, curled up with his helm on his knees.
Prowl felt a spike of panic that threatened to send him over the edge—
Medical Program Override:
Vent.
Vent.
Vent.
Don't calculate.
Just record.
Vent.
Prowl spared nanoseconds to let the program run. He stabilized, refocused, and began to observe.
Gulping vents. Rocking with each intake. Audibly shaking, the edges of his chassis tapping rhythmically.
"Jazz."
No reply. Prowl scanned the room to be sure they were alone, then focused on Jazz and came closer, knelt in front of him. He put his hands out, hesitating, and lightly lay his fingertips on Jazz's shoulders. He gently squeezed the soft rounded tires.
"Jazz?"
Still no response. He looked for any surface trauma, broken plating, smashed lights, torn wires… Finding nothing, putting his hand under Jazz's chin. He nudged Jazz's face up and found the visor dark.
"Jazz," Prowl said. "If you don't respond, I will assume you are in distress and attempt a master interface."
The vents quieted but still came too fast, too shallow to cool his systems. Jazz burned against Prowl's armor. Jazz gave a weak nod and turned his helm against Prowl's hand, revealing a port on his throat, hidden in the darkness of his cabling. Prowl plugged in, uploading his security suite.
First came the initial virus sweep, creating a safe emulation in Jazz to lodge more code, then a series of scans that examined Jazz's soul for threats. Only when Prowl was certain there was no malware, he allowed a trickle of information to flow back to him, searching for a memory.
Static crackled through the wires, slowing Prowl's study of Jazz. Long seconds passed—he was surprised to find the correct memory loaded and beginning to take form.
This memory is… Prowl grimaced, piecing together the edges. Frayed. Burned, even. The bits are torn.
Sorry, Jazz said, moaning in his mind as Prowl sifted through the data. Tried calling it up clear. It didn't come easy.
It is a textbook example of corrupted data, Prowl said. The stress of recall overloaded your circuitry and damaged some of the sectors involved. Although…
Jazz didn't like the ominous tone as Prowl considered the memory, turning it over, examining it back and forth. It looked similar to what had actually happened, Langton and the two mechs standing over him, their words drifting in and out as he put his hand out, trying to keep his balance.
"...get ahold of...locked up tight...say hello..."
A wave of nausea rolled over Jazz, the distant roil of fear and doubt. A stab of panic. All layered on each other and blended as Langton and his mechs put their hands on him.
That was what had happened, wasn't it? He'd thought there had been something else, something more that he'd been afraid of Prowl seeing.
Do not be afraid, Prowl said, isolating the memory and labeling it, saving it in its own folder, downloading it into a firewalled portion of an external memory bank. This is not your fault. I would never fault you for someone else's behavior.
Prowl still held Jazz at arm's length, keeping him upright. But the feel of Prowl's cortex, his voice in Jazz's mind, the confidence and forgiveness there, held Jazz more steadily than his hands on Jazz's shoulders.
Worst part of being an entertainer, Jazz said. Sometimes the client's the one that sets the song. Even if you hate the beat.
…I can only imagine what the rest of that memory would have shown me, Prowl said, if stress and fear and whatever they dosed you with hadn't corrupted the file.
Dosed me with?
Numerous chemicals and additives exist that slow processing speeds and disrupt cortex function. This file…I would have to examine it closely, but 87% chance and rising that this was an acetylene solution to raise the your temperature and a low grade electromagnetic pulse to disrupt your processor. Your clock had to reboot, and what happened before your systems could reset…
Prowl slipped his hand under Jazz's face, tracing his thumb just under his visor.
I am sorry, Jazz. I will find these mechs.
Still in a haze, Jazz's vents slowed, calmed. Prowl watched the electronic fluttering of Jazz's soul nestle in Prowl's code, settling among his confident binaries. And Prowl had the satisfaction of holding Jazz close, examining the bright spark as it rested and lay still. As Jazz slowly regained a little of his senses, Prowl studied him like he might study a complex puzzle.
A mech could go through so many transformations, but the structure of their code held the same shape—a simple cube, a hexagon or stacked pyramids, even blossoming fractals, but always the same pattern.
Jazz, however, swirled in a little kaleidoscope of light, a starry dodecahedron caged behind a hexagonal honeycomb frame. It was not the most complex pattern Prowl had ever seen, but the star flashed white hot, rippling under the frame that burned so red that it turned black. Then the cage somehow flipped, revealing molten blues. Not the most complex, no, but the most alive.
I do not understand you, Prowl said, turning him gently. I do not think I can ever understand you.
Jazz latched onto that voice, focusing on him and pulling himself up out of the corrupted memory.
You say that like it's a good thing.
You are different every time I meet you, Prowl said. But always, unmistakably, Jazz.
Rising out of the memory was not easy. The corruption clung to Jazz, the jagged edges clawing at the soft parts of his code. The static fogged every other thought…but Prowl was a drop of pure energon, cool and clear, and the more Jazz listened, the more he pulled himself free of Langton's murmurs and cruel hands.
Was that what Langton had—? No, no, he was focusing on Prowl.
I've never been this deep before, Jazz said. Am I…what am I seeing?
Prowl smiled. I initiated a master interface. Standard operating procedure for a mech in distress, in case there is a viral attack or malfunctioning component. What do you see?
Jazz's spark fluttered and lifted, still ensconced in Prowl's hold. What he saw was strings of code on all sides, numbers and letters and symbols moving faster than he could read. But if he looked hard and focused, the code became recognizable shapes, cubes stacked on cubes, all transparent and white, all of them rotating in rhythm.
Is that…you?
Jazz leaned toward him, but the code refused to move around him, and he floated in place. Hey, how come I can't…?
My apologies, Prowl said, bringing Jazz closer. This is a shell emulator to host the front ends of our cortexes and…well. Normally you would not be aware of this space.
So why am I?
Prowl should have begun to transition out of Jazz's mind. He had the memory file, his informant had calmed down, and now he needed to process the data for what he could strip out of it.
You are sparked for entertainment, Prowl said. I was sparked for cortex control. We are not actually in the shapes that you see. This is how our minds make sense of seeing our raw code without a physical environment. I was holding you here so that I could download your memory safely and stabilize your processes.
And we're still here 'cause…?
Prowl hesitated.
Because I…enjoy studying you.
Jazz watched the cubes of Prowl's soul twitch and turn, ruffling like avianoid feathers. He was struck by how they sparkled, and struck that this was what Prowl really looked like.
Did Prowl study everyone like this? No. Jazz could read an audience. Even here, Prowl's interests were clear.
Like what you see? Jazz asked and did a little turn.
He wouldn't have been able to explain how he moved or how he flashed his grin or how he did a little hip wiggle. But he felt Prowl's startled delight, felt the code move around him like a warm embrace and a soothing rumble of an engine.
What happens… Jazz wondered, already guessing the answer. What happens if we touch, just touch, inside here?
The cubes tumbled into strange configurations that Jazz couldn't read, all but vibrating in place. The code skipped a beat. And then Prowl was gently moving Jazz away from his own spark.
A full interface, Prowl said. Here, in a master emulator where you would have no control.
Ah. Jazz shivered, somehow cold in his code. Yeah, that does sound a little scary. You'd see…?
If I looked, Prowl said. But I would not look where I am not invited.
Something changed. There was a sense of movement, of flying upward. Jazz felt the code vanish, felt the world grow dark again, and then he was aware of being in his frame again, held securely, one hand cupping his face.
"Are you all right?" Prowl asked. "Jazz?"
The visor flickered on. Jazz looked up at him, putting his hand on Prowl's wrist.
"I'm…I'm good." Jazz turned his face, pressing a kiss into Prowl's hand. "Just tired is all."
"I am not surprised," Prowl said. "What you went through would wear out any mech. Can you make it to the berth?"
"With a little help, maybe."
Jazz took Prowl's offered arm, rising and leaning against him with every shaky step. He let his helm fall on Prowl's shoulder, groaning as Prowl turned him and nudged him so that the back of his pedes touched the couch. Jazz all but dropped onto the soft berth, laying flat and putting his hands over his face.
"Is there anything else you require?" Prowl asked, kneeling next to him.
"My dignity?" Jazz chuckled. "I'm good. I'll get a cube up from 'Jack, be good as new."
"Then I will let you rest," Prowl said. "Although…"
Jazz lay spread out before him, all smooth steel and soft cables, visor glowing blue…mouth parted…
"I resisted temptation once," Prowl said. "But..."
He bent and pressed a kiss over Jazz's mouth, pleased that Jazz yielded. When Prowl stood straight again, he found Jazz smiling faintly, staring intently into him.
"Maybe next time," Jazz murmured. "When I can play back."
"I look forward to it," Prowl said. "Call me if anything comes up."
Jazz nodded once, taking a good look at him.
Prowl
Praxian Frame Class φ
Enforcer—Special Investigations
Sparked to Enforcer Station Keshigomu #2
Currently Stationed: Iacon Headquarters, Senate Attachment
Partner: Chromedome (temp)
Clearance Level: Delta
Addendum: Permanent Medical Program Installed for Spontaneous Crash Syndrome
Loading data…
"Sure thing."
Prowl stood, taking a long moment to vent in, visibly steeling himself before he stepped into the elevator. The doors closed and he was gone.
Jazz pulled the visor from his face, letting it fall to the floor, and he turned to face the wall, curling up against the back of the couch. He grew increasingly aware of the muffled thumps of bass percussion below, the low drone of the news on the screen. He curled, arms tight around himself.
"…Red?"
Static crackled as Red Alert's voice came from the screen.
"Yes? You're still alive. It worked? Of course it worked."
His voice was eager, expectant.
Jazz grit his denta hard enough to hurt.
"Red…" Jazz said slowly. "I appreciate what you did for me. It worked. Couldn't done it myself. But…I need you to go away. For awhile."
"…ah."
Red Alert did not argue. He gave a ping of acknowledgment, and the static faded back into the news.
Now that Jazz was out of the illusion, out of the shell that Prowl had created, he remembered the proper memory, Langton at the table, shallow conversation, the polite veneer. Red Alert had twisted and corrupted the file into something else, and while the mocking jibes and cruel laughter weren't real—
—the jet bent and grabbed Alto by the shoulder, dragging her across the floor, shoving her out the open hatch—
—the emotions that Red Alert had cannibalized and repurposed were still tangible and fresh, an open wound that had never healed.
He hated Red Alert for dredging that helplessness back to the surface.
He hated Prowl for making it necessary.
He hated the jets and the warbuilds in the wastes.
He hated that his master had turned him into a weapon.
He hated himself for how well he played this song.
"I do not understand you. You are different every time I meet you. But always, unmistakably, Jazz."
Prowl had said that. Prowl understood so much, picked out tiny details and drew huge pictures out of that. But Prowl couldn't understand Jazz.
And Prowl had liked that. Was enamored of the confusion Jazz left trailing in his steps. Prowl had been warm and inviting and…there had been no hint of a lie. Everything Prowl said felt true.
Jazz still held the fragments of that feeling. He saved the fragments all from their temporary cache, downloading them safely, saving them a dozen different ways. He held the fragments together, forming something like Prowl's emulation—smaller, thinner, weaker, but still the same feeling. And he held that feeling around himself, pulling it close.
He fell into recharge like that, his back to the world, hiding long enough to pull his own pieces back together.
"—er—"
"—eister—"
"Meister!"
Rising from a fog of anxiety, Jazz groaned, rolling on his back. He dangled his hand over the side of the couch, fumbling for his visor, finding it after a moment. His personal communication line flashed as the message came across in a familiar voice.
"Hey, Meister, are you there? I have a job that needs a few more hands, but it's a rush thing. I can't wait long—"
"I'm here," Jazz said, switching the tonality on his vocalizer. "Orion? Izzat you?"
"It's a temple job," Orion said. "Official. Big one—they need as many of us as we can round up in the next joor."
"What?" Jazz clicked his visor into place, already stumbling to his pedes. He sent a ping to Wheeljack that he would grab a cube on his way out. "'A joor'? Mech, where are you? What's the cargo?"
"Cargo and passengers," Orion said, "but they haven't said anything else. Can you get here? We're at the Temple of the Primal Utility."
"On my way," Jazz said, heading down the elevator, nodding at Wheeljack for the cube in his waiting hand. Grinned in surprise at the kerosene kick and gave a thumbs up. "Thanks for thinking of me, mech. Be there in a breem."
It was sleek white and black Jazz who slipped out of the back of the club, but pure matte black Meister who left the alley. He looked up and down the empty road, then transformed off the sidewalk onto his wheels.
If time was of the essence, then he didn't want to trust the highways. He brought up the traffic reports even as he pointed himself to the culvert leading to the underground.
"—wait times as long as three joor just crossing to the business district as Iacon locks down in the face of mounting anger over energon costs—"
The only problem with taking the roads beneath the surface was the pitch darkness. Cybertron wandered the lonely roads of space without any starshine to relieve the gloom. As the planet built over its older layers, covering streets and buildings and electrical systems, the old streetlamps flickered, burned out, and died. A bare handful held on, startling little pockets of gold beneath the city. Otherwise, any mech in the undercity relied on his own headlights.
And he wasn't sure if the feline cassette still lay in wait. It was risky, but he turned on his full forward lights and put his sonic array on standby.
Acid rain had trickled through the gutters and cracks in the road, eating away the pavement so that he was driving on steel wires, rusted pipes, and buckled struts. The farther he went, the lower the ceiling dropped, pushed under the weight of apartments and high rises. He slowed, rolling around debris, angling his lights to the space immediately ahead of him.
Steel clattered heavily somewhere behind him—a distant echo that vanished as quickly as he heard it.
He froze. Turned off his lights. Ducked under the bent frame of what had once been a wall. He cut his engine and transformed, curling up small. If he scrunched, he could completely hide behind the crumpled slag. There were rust flakes all along the wall here, and he smacked his fist against them, sending rust raining over himself. He thanked Primus for his flat black surface, and he turned off his visor so that even that tiny glow disappeared. He ran a cycle of coolant to steady himself.
Footsteps, two and two, two and two, sofert than a mech's should have been. If had been driving any faster, he wouldn't have heard them. A small mech, a cassette—but had they seen him?
Probably not.
Maybe not.
Hopefully not?
It had heard him, yes, but it must have been on the other side of the street when it heard him, too far to pinpoint where he was, too far to see more than just the reflections of his headlights.
Damn crazy kitty, Jazz thought. How long've you been hanging out here, just sniffing around?
The footsteps were just a few meters away, padding down the street, coming along the sidewalk. Jazz held his vents. He was nothing, just scrap, just a pile of slag in a bigger pile of slag. The footsteps came around the wall and stopped right in front of him.
Could it see him? He'd broken up the lines of his frame with rust and slag. Maybe it had thermal vision? But he'd run coolant—he should be the same temperature as the slag around him.
In the depths of the planet, something groaned, shifted, knocked steel down from level to the next. The cassette growled and turned.
Jazz didn't move.
Long seconds passed. Half a breem. A full breem.
Oh no, he thought. I ain't buying it. I ain't dumb, neither.
Another breem passed.
The faintest hiss of air through a vent intake.
The cassette was still right in front of him. Listening.
Maybe it thought he was further back in the darkness? He couldn't tell which way it was facing. And if he turned on his visor, it would see him.
He tensed—
the cassette snarled an inch from his faceplate
—and screamed in time with the searing lights and blaring lyrics.
TWO SHOOTING STARS
TWO SHOOTING STARS
Nothing had ever taken his weaponized sonics so close before. Sparks erupted on the cassette's joints, flashing over its whole frame, as it threw itself backwards, trying to escape the pain.
Jazz was already up and running, stumbling as he turned his visor back on, and he risked a look over his shoulder as he transformed once more—
̷̷̶̴̸̶̴v̶̷̷̸̵̸̵̷̸̵̸̶̞͂ ̵̸̷̷̶̴̶ ̷̴̶̴̷̸̵ ̷̷̶̴̸̶̴g̶̵̶̴̴̴̶̴̴̴̷̴̭̽ ̵̸̷̷̶̴̶ ̷̴̶̴̷̸̵ ̷̷̶̴̸̶̴
Cassette Frame Class M̶̢̟͛͠i̶̺̾c̷̝̤̑r̴φ̷͚̭̋
R̷e̵c̵o̷r̵d̸e̸r̶
Sparked to ̸K̶a̶o̷n̴ ̸A̷u̶x̶̷̵i̵̸̴l̴̶̵l̷̶̴a̸̵̷r̴̸̵y̵̵̷ ̶̴̶#̴̸̷2̴̸̶
S̵e̷#̸a̸t̸e̷ ̵A̸#̴a̶c̴h̵m̸e̸n̴t̴
Partner: S̸̸̴̷̷̴̸ ̴̷̴̸̴̷̶ ̶̵̸̷̸̷̴ ̵̶̸̷̴̴̸ ̶̴̸̶̸̷̵n̸̶̴̵̴̷̴ ̴̶̴̴̶̶̵d̴̵̵̸̵̶̶ ̷̸̴̴̵̴̸w̵̴̵̵̷̸̷ ̵̸̷̷̶̴̶ ̷̴̶̴̷̸̵ ̷̷̶̴̸̶̴v̷̵̶̸̵̶̶ ̶̷̷̴̶̷̴
Addendum:
Loading data…
The glitched and corrupted data vanished into the cassettes bounding frame, leaping toward him despite the haywire made of its code.
Jazz took a hard slash across his roof. Too close—too close—he wouldn't be able to run. He sped down the cramped road, hitting top speed, and then he transformed, sliding along his side.
Sparks flew from under him, and steel shavings and paint, but he had his blaster in one hand firing steady shots behind him and he had his sonics at full volume.
When wires cross
And hope is lost
I'm falling down too far
You're falling beside me
Falling fast flying free
Two shooting stars
Two shooting stars
The feline lasted up to the chorus, taking two rounds that grazed its sides, then finally taking one in the chest that flipped it backward, tumbling over itself, falling flat and scraping its paws on the pavement.
Jazz didn't stop. Already transforming again, he sped down the narrowing road and turned at the first sign of an access back up to the surface. Gun stowed back safely in subspace, he came up in an alley between tenements, rolling under broken lights, crossing the street and coming into the bright neons and crystal glows of the business district.
He passed an office front polished to a mirror reflection. His side looked streaked and chewed, but only up close. His whole chassis was black—the damage didn't catch any light and didn't reach his protoform. It hurt, and it would hurt to drive on and hurt to carry cargo on, and on Primus, it would hurt rolling home, but no one would know.
Red, Jazz said, pinging his line. Got a file for you.
The line connected, but there was a moment of static hesitation.
Am I forgiven? Red Alert asked.
Weren't nothing to forgive, Jazz said. Just bad memories making me bad company.
He'd uploaded the record of the cassette's information, plus the short recordings of the fight.
The little slag that almost pegged me last time, Jazz said. Got a little more on him if you want it.
You saw him? Red Alert whispered. You actually saw him. And you're still alive. How…oh Primus, look at those claws, look at that…
Red Alert's jaw clicked shut.
Look at that coding! I can barely make anything out, and that's city data he's blocked out. Oh, he's as good as I thought.
Who? Jazz asked.
That cassette's carrier. I thought he'd wiped himself from the system, same as me, but this proves he has some kind of legal presence. This…this might take me awhile.
Take your time, Jazz said. I'ma be busy for awhile.
He clicked off the connection, coming around the corner, wincing at the cold air on his abraded frame, then transforming onto the sidewalk and the steps that led up to the temple.
Most buildings on Cybertron were dark, black, made of steel and polymers. The temple, however, was so white that even its contours and edges faded into itself. It was not as high as the towers, which stood aloof at the edge of the city. The temple, as pale as starlight, instead loomed over the business district, higher than the tallest highrises. Its doors could accommodate all but the largest mechs, and the pointed spire at the very top bent forward. The effect was that Jazz felt small as he went up the stairs, glancing around for any sign of his friends.
Dozens of mechs stood on the steps, likewise looking for their own groups. Most of them were cargo haulers, semis and trucks, tippers and flatbeds, but there were smaller vehicles, femmes and little roadsters like himself.
A purple decal.
He flinched, then kept scanning, hoping he hadn't been spotted recognizing the familiar decal. He snapped a quick photo, getting the mech's face.
Motormaster
Aerodyne Frame Class
Long Haul—D-50
Route: District ⊓
Sparked to Kaon Depot 09
Civil Incidents: assault, reckless operation
Loading data…
He managed to snap another one of the smaller vehicles around him, but they weren't facing Jazz. Just as well. Jazz was standing out and that wasn't good. He scanned the groups for any familiar faces, about to ping—
"Meister!"
Jazz whipped around, almost bringing his blaster out of subspace.
Orion
Convoy Frame Class
Long Haul—D-50-01
Route: District ⊓
Sparked to Iacon Depot 1984
Civil Incidents: assault self-defense
Loading data…
"Whoa," Orion said, drawing up short. "It's just me. You okay?"
His smile faded to concern as he spotted the dark gouges Jazz's side. He put a large hand on Jazz's shoulder, leaning around him and wincing when at the claw marks between the doorwings.
"Just ran into some trouble," Jazz said, waving his concern away. "Had to take the low road to get here, but nothing I couldn't handle."
"I'm sorry you were hurt," Orion said. "But I'm glad you made it. They're about to close the call."
"That was quick," Jazz said. "Less'n what? A joor?"
Orion turned and motioned Jazz along. They went up the steps, collecting Ariel and Dion sitting near the top.
Ariel
Takaratomy Frame Class
Small Shipping—D-50-01
Route: District ⊓
Sparked to Iacon Depot 85
Civil Incidents: assault self-defense
Loading data…
Dion
Magna Frame Class
Small Shipping—D-50-01
Route: District ⊓
Sparked to Iacon Depot 67
Civil Incidents: victim of jet reprisals, fully repaired
Loading data…
"I called everyone else," Orion said. "But no one could make it in time. The highway's slowed to a crawl and the access roads are all stopped up."
"Sounds familiar," Jazz said. "Got stuck in that big dance party on the fifty."
"I saw that," Ariel said. "On the news. But they didn't say what started the traffic jam."
"A riot," Dion said. "I heard it was an energon riot. And that they had to bring in warbuilds to scatter them."
"'Warbuilds'?" Ariel said. "Those are supposed to be a last resort."
"Yeah," Jazz said. "It kinda was. The riot was pretty scattered when we started moving again. Drove right through what was left of 'em."
They processed that, filling in the details he didn't explain. Dion grimaced, rubbing his helm, and Orion put his hand on Ariel's back.
"Are…are you sure we should be here?" Ariel asked softly. "The temple's in charge of warbuilds. If they're calling in strikes on civilians…"
"Might have been other warbuilds," Orion said, thinking out loud. "Jets against their heavier armor…I don't think they'd assemble a bunch of us carriers just to blow us up."
"Plus the payout's good," Dion chuckled without humor. "If it's real."
The groan of heavy hinges made them look up. The temple doors slowly swung open, signaling them to enter.
"They won't blow us up in the temple," Jazz said. "It'd ruin the shine."
Ariel smiled, but she looked at the high arches like an enemy she'd rather run from.
"They wouldn't bomb a temple," she murmured.
Flanking Orion, they took their place in line, passing a temple bot who examined their functions while cataloging them as a single crew.
"You'll do," the bot said to Orion. "But your assistants aren't sparked to carry heavy cargo."
"True, your reverence," Orion said, holding Ariel as she tensed. "She's my navigator and Dion's my runabout."
The temple bot, austere in his white frame and gold trim, let his gaze fall on Jazz.
"And this one's barely larger than the femme. What can he carry?"
"A tune," Jazz said with a grin.
The temple bot smiled despite himself.
"And our spirits," Orion said readily. "I know we're a little motley, but we get the job done."
"I've never seen an entertainer on a long haul crew," the temple bot said, adding to his ledger. "But you are following your functions. Enter and welcome to the service of Primus. May your work be a blessing and a lesson to those on a dark road."
Now ain't that ominous, Jazz said, keeping his smile on. Makes it sound like we're driving into the well of sparks.
Just stay close, Orion said. We're rolling in together, and we're damn well rolling out together, too.