Like rising out of a well of black oil, Jazz came to his senses.
He lay on the familiar foam of his berth, the cheap third-hand mattress that had come with the club before it was his. Too wide to be a comfortable couch, it enticed the client to sit, to turn and crawl over their rented joyride. Afterward, too narrow to let two mechs sit together, the berth encouraged the client to rise and leave. It was an entertainer's berth, meant solely for entertaining.
So Jazz felt sick having Prowl sit beside him in the well worn dip on the side where other clients had sat, leaning over him and creasing the foam in the same old way. Prowl shouldn't be there like just another client. Still dazed, Jazz put a hand out, reaching up so that Prowl took his hand and held it to his hood, feeling for the fuel line in Jazz's wrist.
"Your spark beat is back to normal," Prowl said. "Jazz, can you hear me? Respond. Jazz?"
Jazz couldn't speak. He bit back the keens welling up in his throat. His master had said Jazz was allowed to keep Prowl…if he could. How was he supposed to keep Prowl? He couldn't even tell him the truth.
His sensors pinged a warning. They weren't alone. There were other mechs with them, fuzzy blurs that shifted in and out of focus. Jazz reset his optics and reset them again, but that only set the room spinning. He groaned as his fuel tanks bubbled and churned.
"Get him upright," someone said. "Don't want him lying down if he purges."
Prowl put an arm around him, helping him sit straight, and Jazz pressed his face against Prowl's neck. His engine wouldn't stop skipping, hiccuping with embarrassing starts and fits. His whole frame ached—his knee joint refused to stop hurting no matter how he adjusted, and his shoulder whined with every twitch.
"How is he even operational?" Chromedome asked somewhere close. "Half of him's cracked."
"Cracked ain't broken. Now press down tighter and don't talk unless you're going to say something useful."
Confusion pushed through the pain. Jazz turned his helm just enough to see from the side of his visor.
Ratchet. The medic had a bunch of kevlar bandages in his hand, alcohol cleanser in the other. New wire twists and a small welding torch lay in his lap. He looked like he'd been working for several shifts in a row—his optics glowed red from strained wiring that had been on for too long. And yet here he was, operating outside of his clinic.
"Since when do you make house calls?" Jazz said through grit denta, his smile more of a grimace.
"Since it gets me away from answering a temple summons," Ratchet muttered. He leaned over Jazz, cleaning out a crack as wide as his fist, then welding a scar across Jazz's hood, sealing punctures and cracks. "You must've been real close to the blast. Do you remember anything?"
Setting a bomb and shooting lots of mechs, Jazz thought. Blowing up mechs for the crime of worshiping in the front row. Killing unarmed temple bots. Hitting the street hard.
The longer they waited for his answer, the more he wanted to confess. This—whatever this was, this mission, this political game of his master's—had grown so much bigger than himself, than anything he could understand.
They glanced at each in concern. Had he forgotten? Was his cortex badly injured?
He needed a lie, any lie, but he blanked. Nothing else would come to mind—just the blast and screaming and mechs falling backward on the floor because he pulled a trigger. The jet, so much bigger and powerful, the fall of the pontifex, Jazz's own fall to the street, the landing, the pain, driving to the club as war ignited around him, a war that would eat the planet, would eat him, would eat Prowl—
The keen escaped his mouth, and he clutched Prowl with all his strength, which was not much. His shoulder had no torque and the axles in his other arm had cracked.
"Whoa, whoa—" Ratchet put a seal over a cable, staunching an energon seep. "Don't tense up."
"Chromedome," Prowl said, "summon a cube from Wheeljack."
At hearing that name, Ratchet froze. His mouth opened as if to ask a question. Then he let it go and added another seal.
"A cube'll help," Ratchet said. "But he's leaking and he was low already. Three would be better."
Chromedome nodded and left.
As they waited, Ratchet ran liquid sealant gel over his fingers and slipped his hand up under Jazz's hood. He winced at the cracks and exposed wires sparking under his touch.
"Close to the blast, for sure," Ratchet said. "Might have even taken a few shots when they saw he wasn't dead. There's no telling how much his self-repair fixed before I got here."
"No wonder he's in shock," Prowl said, holding Jazz flush against himself. "Should I lead him through another defrag cycle?"
"No," Ratchet said. "Don't want to risk you crashing."
Jazz felt Prowl stiffen. He couldn't see Prowl's optics, but Prowl's fingers had tensed and dug just a little too hard into his side.
"Don't give me that look," Ratchet said. "You had the shakes just stabilizing him. No point trying when he doesn't need it."
"How do you know about that?" Prowl started angrily. "No one knows—"
"'No one' is a decent medibot," Ratchet said. "Except me. Keep complaining and I'll glitch you myself. I just make this look easy—you whining makes the job harder."
Prowl's mouth opened. The look in Ratchet's optics closed it.
Ratchet withdrew his hand, now covered in energon, and wiped his fingers clean in alcohol. With another handful of gel, he swept through Jazz's pelvic joints. His fingers glossed over connectors, fuel coils, shock absorber—each of them ragged with abrasions and torn edges.
"Must've landed on his side," Ratchet mused. "It's even worse on his left."
"Is this painful?" Prowl asked. "He was singing before he collapsed, but now…"
"Neural stimpak's dulling that," Ratchet said. "But before? His processor'd shut down in self-defense. Looks like he even shut down his whole sensory array, locked himself inside for awhile."
Prowl didn't respond except to cup Jazz's face, holding his hand lightly so Ratchet could wind steel tape around Jazz's fingers.
The elevator opened. Chromedome came in with an armful of cubes, setting them down at the bar and handing them to Ratchet and Prowl. He took one for himself before giving the last to Ratchet, who'd bolted down his own and now gave one to Jazz, slowly tipping it for him to drink.
Behind Chromedome, Wheeljack followed with a cube in each hand. His helm was bent, and he reset his optics over and over, weary from a double shift and—
Wheeljack froze when he saw Ratchet. His optics narrowed for a moment.
"Hm."
With a little too much force, Wheeljack set the cube down by Ratchet. Nothing sloshed over the side, but the heavy clink of crystal sent a high pitched ring through the room.
Ratchet didn't flinch.
"Slumming with the junk?" Wheeljack muttered.
Ratchet took a moment to deliberately examine the cube, swirling the pink liquid fizz with a white quartz shot added on the surface. Then he put the cube in Jazz's hands, helping him to hold the drink steady.
"Just making sure the energon won't blow him up."
Wheeljack's grill flashed red.
"…do you know two each other?" Chromedome asked.
Ratchet gave Wheeljack another look…then vented and shook his helm.
"Old business," he said. "S'nothing."
"Sure, old," Wheeljack said, turning and heading out. "Let me know when Jazz's sorted. Boss might need a repairbot with hands that work."
Ratchet's helm snapped around, a retort ready. But Wheeljack was already gone behind the closing elevator doors.
"Figures he'd end up here," Ratchet grumbled, settling back down on his seat. "Don't let him near Jazz, 'specially if he's going on about improvements. Jazz'll heal fine naturally. He doesn't need more modifications."
"That isn't just professional pride talking, I hope," Prowl said.
Ratchet rolled his optics. "'Jack couldn't aim close enough to graze my pride. And I mean it. Jazz'll heal. He's wrecked himself, but it's mostly cracks, stress fractures, crushed servos and the like. For a few cycles, don't let him do anything more'n lay back and think of Cybertron."
A rare heat colored Prowl's faceplate.
"I would not—!"
"Good," Ratchet said without believing him. "Then I'll leave him with you. Just let him rest awhile, keep him comfortable. If, for some reason, he takes a turn for the worse, call me at the…"
His voice trailed off as thunder rumbled overhead. They both looked out the window as lightning lit the clouds hanging over Iacon. There was another flash, highlighting the edges of acid vapor slowly coalescing into drops.
"Call me at the bar," Ratchet sighed. "I'm not racing the rain home."
Chromedome groaned. "I'll join you. That'll teach me not to pay attention to the weather reports."
"There are no weather reports," Prowl said in growing irritation. "There was no warning."
"It happens sometimes," Ratchet said, flipping his hand up as the late notification finally blinked on their city messaging system. "Besides, there's enough smoke outta the temple to kick off a cloud burst."
Prowl didn't watch them go. As soon as he was alone, he pressed a small kiss to Jazz's forehead, easing him gently down on the berth. The influx of energon had settled Jazz's systems, warming him, and his engines purred in a steady, drowsy hum. Best to let him be for now.
Prowl went to the window, leaning against the wall. Below, on the sidewalk, Beachcomber welcomed in a pair of femmes who had sought the only shelter in reach, holding each other and twitching in pain as the first drops of rain began to fall. Beachcomber picked up the folding sign advertising special prices and went in, closing the door behind him.
Lightning flashed. The rain came down in sheets.
The roads became murder—the neon lights gave the rain a lurid glow of green and pink swirling in an oil sheen. Against the black of the night, the colors were beautiful, running down the streets like rivers. The tenements and towers dimmed their lights as everyone watched, alert to the sound of sizzling rust or hissing electronics. Unlike mechs, the buildings were made of dead steel—the rain only polished the walls and windows to a pearlescent gleam. But to any living mech with positronics, energon, oil and a spark…
Half a faceplate and a twitching, spasming hand floated up in a current along a gutter, then sank back down into the darkness.
Prowl turned away.
Heavy rain would last for several orn. While Iacon waited, and with no new information, Prowl found himself with nothing but Jazz's private chambers to study.
There was precious little. The bar held a few empty cubes, a couple bottles of quartz and nitro additives. The wall monitor displayed the news, volume off, and the rain left static noise rippling across the screen. The image of the news anchor tilted and ran vertically down the screen, glitching as acid scattered the signal.
A lamp stood on the bar. He turned it on and found cube stains on the chipped, worn surface. Stains on the floor caught his attention. The foam tiles that muffled their steps also had no covering to speak of, the vinyl long worn away leaving nothing but flakes along the seams. There were oil stains and coolant splashes disappearing under the few seats—what he had taken for textured upholstery was actually heat damage mottling the surfaces.
The few lamps were not yellowed for aesthetics. They were simply ancient and had lost their white gloss.
And the berth…
Prowl heaved a long, long vent and leaned against the bar, regarding Jazz alone on the slim mattress. He had seen these berths in every cheap recharge joint and stim den. Mechs sold a good time on them, hoping their client didn't hurt them too badly, didn't report them, actually paid for their joyride.
Entertainment was finally a sanctioned function. Dancing, singing, and quick overloads. Entertainer bots had official license to sell themselves. It was better than being illegal or unregistered. But Prowl wasn't sure it was much of an improvement.
It marked Jazz was as something permitted to be sold.
He wondered what Jazz thought.
There wasn't enough room on the berth, so he sat on the floor and leaned back. Jazz hummed behind him, slipping into deeper and deeper recharge.
Prowl wasn't sure what he was looking for now.
That little purple mark didn't seem as important anymore, not with war about to erupt out of Iacon. The Senate was talking about a military attack on the temple—
—but it seemed more like a terrorist action than a force with heavy armaments—
—and the Senate wasn't sure who was to blame—
—or who they wanted to blame—
—and a simple purple decal didn't seem like it mattered much of anything. And even if it did mean that the temple was dabbling in murder, most of the temple was burnt to slag. The pontifex was dead. Prowl didn't think the temple would matter much anymore, not like this.
Listening to the drone of rain on the window, his optics half-shut, and he let himself compile in a light recharge. Not too light. If Jazz started to take a turn for the worse, he needed to hear it, to call for Ratchet immediately.
But he had been awake for three shifts in a row. Without meaning to, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
So when Jazz awoke, painfully coming up on his elbows and looking around, he wasn't sure if he should wake Prowl.
The Enforcer didn't look any less controlled or stern in his sleep. If anything, being relaxed only emphasized how he didn't sit anything less than straight, how his helm didn't dip, and his vents came perfectly measured.
He seemed so constant. Steady.
Prowl was everything Jazz wasn't. And Jazz would destroy him.
Nevermind the pain. Jazz needed to get up, stand, walk, move, anything.
If he'd been on stimpaks or pain inhibitors, they had long since worn off. Every joint felt stiff, like gears wound too tight, and just putting his hands on the edge of the berth made his fingers ache. He slid one pede to the floor, wincing as his knee joint rattled, then tried to gently set his other pede down. Instead the weight dragged on his pelvic joint and set his whole lower back ablaze. He sat still for half a breem, catching his vents, leaning forward…and then stood up in one swift movement before he could change his mind.
The room spun in slow circles. He crossed the room too fast, sinking down on the divan before he toppled. His tanks churned and threatened to purge. It took a conscious effort to calm his systems, force gyros to reset, and settle his racing spark. He put his helm in his hands, resting on his knees.
A miracle.
No…his master had said they had to make a miracle.
Was his master serious?
Jazz scoffed.
Stupid question. Better question—was his master insane?
…Jazz?
Red Alert's small voice sounded like it expected no answer. It was a sparkling asking into the dark if their friend had been eaten by monsters. Jazz smiled despite himself.
Still alive, he said.
Oh, thank Primus…you just dropped off and then it was like you weren't even there anymore—your personal frequency went haywire and vanished and I couldn't reach you and…
Jazz frowned. Why didn't you just patch into the vid like before?
Jazz stopped himself before he finished. Before, they had been alone. Red Alert had gone to such lengths to hide himself, deleting his registry from the city database. Of course the other mech wouldn't risk revealing himself.
I was afraid, Red Alert said after the pause. I thought I'd see you broken or glitching or…well.
A moment passed as Jazz processed that.
I'm…I'm okay, he said, not sure how to reassure Red Alert, or if he even should. I mean, I'll be okay. Just busted up a little.
A little? Red Alert chuckled helplessly. Oh Primus…I'd hate to see your definition of a lot.
Jazz couldn't help laughing with him. Okay, not gonna lie, a lot wouldn't be much worse'n what it is.
He lifted his helm, staring at Prowl, then at the silent news running footage of the smoking temple. He watched medbots pulling out his victims on stretchers and gathering pieces for repair, watched Enforcers searching for evidence. One of them—
TARGET OF OPPORTUNITY
Barricade
Bravo Frame Class
Enforcer—Dominus Criminal Pursuit
Sparked to Enforcer Station ER EX 25
Currently Stationed: Iacon Headquarters
Partner: n/a
Clearance Level: Beta
Loading data…
TARGET OF OPPORTUNITY
—picked up a long mess of components and wires and grimaced. When he turned it slightly, Jazz recognized it as half of the temple bot he'd used as a bomb.
He turned away from the screen too fast. The room was still spinning—the tilt of his helm made the mercury sensors in his audios pitch and his balance reeled. He grabbed the edge of the divan and told himself the room wasn't moving, just keep going like everything was normal.
Uh. Red?
Yes?
…is the senate really saying it's another city?
Red Alert took a deep vent.
Yes. They haven't decided who they're going to blame yet. I would guess Nyon or Tarn. The Prime will want to make an example of them, cut them off from support and scare their allies.
Jazz wondered what Red Alert meant by allies. These were things A3 had never explained, things that the young Tone had never learned and the older Jazz didn't understand. And it felt too late to try to learn now.
All'a that's way above my paygrade, Jazz said. What's gonna happen?
You think I know? Red Alert huffed.
Well, yeah, Jazz said.
Red Alert didn't respond.
More'n me, Jazz said. I'm just the gun—don't rightly know how I'm being aimed anymore.
…I suppose, Red Alert said slowly, if I had to guess—and this is all a guess, mind you, I'm not built for algorithmic prediction…
He sounded like he wanted Jazz to laugh and interrupt. When Jazz only waited, Red Alert audibly frowned and kept going.
It…it'll be Tarn. Too many warbuilds that he can't control. There are jets running deathflights over the deserts, and the Prime's army hasn't been able to bring them to heel. With the temple broken and so many warbuilds unaccounted for…Nyon was complaining the most about fuel, but Tarn has been openly challenging the ruling order.
Jazz half-listened. The names and reasons ran by him. And then what?
What do you mean? The Prime will attack Tarn and raze it to the ground. Isn't that enough?
And then what? Jazz demanded. A whole city won't go without a fight.
No, but… Red Alert paused, taking another look at his data. He'd stopped in mid-despair at the idea of a city destroyed, but if he kept moving along that logic path, two possibilities presented themselves.
Nyon will take advantage of that opportunity, he reasoned. Take the energon they can get. The Prime can't destroy the whole city…there will be skirmishes, running battles. The warbuilds will be decimated, but they'll still take out whole swaths of the Nyon forces.
Okay, Jazz said. So Tarn ain't dumb, right? They gotta know that, too.
Yes, Red Alert said, picking up the thread, gaining confidence in his analysis. Yes, they would know this. They would not be paralyzed at the thought of attack. They're a city of warbuilds. They would strike first—they've been revving for a fight. They would gather their allies, strike first—no…no. They would not have known you would attack the temple…unless your master told them?
Jazz shrugged. Who knows? Don't think I'm the only pawn on his board.
True…even so, it would be reckless to hypothesize. Red Alert straightened, scanning his data for the latest updates and newsfeeds. Tarn would gather its forces in preparation. They may wait for the formal declaration, but they would be en route.
Here? Jazz asked. Iacon?
No. Nyon. They're closer, an easier target. They will gather the jets—Vos will come to their aid. And then…
Red Alert winced.
Refugees…they will have to cross the desert. The highway won't be safe. They'll stand a greater chance, but…as soon as the rain stops…the fight starts.
Jazz bit down, refusing to purge energon. No time to waste. He held the edges of the chair, holding his weight with his arms, then slid his pedes forward. He reassured himself that he could do this, then maneuvered himself up to his pedes. His knee ground against its own gears and threatened to buckle—he took a rushed step to the bar, leaning against the edge as he took several deep vents.
Jazz, do you need—
"Do you need help?"
Jazz glanced over his shoulder. Prowl was already standing, one hand out.
Thank Primus for small favors—Prowl no longer had Target of Opportunity flashing in red over his information in Jazz's HUD.
Jazz gave him a small, embarrassed smile.
"Thought I could stand straight longer'n I could. Help me to the elevator?"
Prowl frowned, stepping close and putting his arm around Jazz, holding his free hand.
"I should help you to the berth," he said. "You are going to fall over."
"I'ma go crazy sitting still," Jazz said. "Just to the bar. Please?"
Prowl vented, but he didn't argue. It was easy providing a strong hand for Jazz to lean on, letting him take small steps, holding still when Jazz yelped in sudden pain.
"You're in no condition—"
"Crossed the desert worse'n this," Jazz said, lifting his helm and pressing a kiss to Prowl's faceplate. "S'awright. Walking makes it heal faster."
"I doubt Ratchet would agree."
"Well, then, let's mosey on down and ask him."
The elevator was a bad surprise, sending Jazz's gyros into a tailspin as it started down. He held Prowl tight, hiding against Prowl's throat.
"Please," Prowl said softly, drawing him close, putting both arms around him. "You don't have to push yourself."
There was no answer Jazz could give. He wasn't even sure what he was doing. But sitting still was not the answer. Sitting still was death. If he was to keep Prowl, then Jazz needed to move, to cause chaos, whip that chaos into a whirlwind, and along the way, he had to believe that the chaos would make opportunities. When he didn't know what routes to take, he had to create as many routes as possible.
So he took Prowl's hand and let him lead the way across the club. A few mechs sat at scattered seats, sipping energon, listening to the rumble of acid on the roof. Voices came in dull murmurs, quiet glances at the dark rainbow of poison sliding down the windows. No one wanted to dance or pretend they weren't in danger. Blaster's music was a low beat to make the quiet of the club bearable.
Jazz provided a small spectacle as Prowl helped him to the bar, easing him up onto a stool beside Ratchet. The medic vented heavily, and he deliberately ignored Jazz beyond a weary shake of his helm.
"He would not stay put," Prowl said, fidgeting under Ratchet's glare even though it was pointed at the far wall.
"Just overpowered you, huh?" Ratchet grumbled and tossed back a fancy swirl of orange and pink energon. "Another one."
Wheeljack didn't answer. He made the cube, pouring in a shot of kerosene, adding quartz dust, and slid it along the bar.
Jazz had to lift his hand quickly so he didn't block the drink. He winced as tensile cords in his back pulled at weak struts, and he leaned his weight against the bar again, grimacing in pain.
He glanced at Wheeljack, wondering what was wrong—
Wheeljack
Excelsior Frame Class
Engineer—2nd class (demoted)
Serves at Iacon Club ≆22 - District ⊓
Sparked to Tower Seneca: subcontract Polyhex technical institute
Civil Incident: high ordinance malfunction (explosive), destruction of main tower laboratories
Function Reduced due to reckless behavior
Loading data…
—and his mech glared sullen anger at Ratchet. Wheeljack had never looked so put out. His facegrill glowed a steady, lurid red, and his optics had narrowed to slits.
Jazz wondered if the cube was poisoned.
"You should be resting," Ratchet sighed with the air of knowing he wouldn't be listened to. "Letting your overstrung repair systems, y'know, repair."
"I'm repairing just fine," Jazz said. "Walking around helps ease the kinks in the cables. Couldn't stay still no longer anyhow."
"High performance just means hyperactive," Ratchet grumbled.
"Mech…" Jazz said, lowering his voice. "Could you at least hook me up with a pain killer? Neural pack? Anything?"
"Should be a left hook to lay you out in the berth," Ratchet sighed, and he gave Jazz a hopeful look. "At least 'till the rain stops?"
"Sure, bossbot," Jazz said. "After the rain, I got appointments to keep. Please?"
Ratchet hesitated, his ethics warring with Jazz's obstinance.
And Jazz's generous payouts.
"Not in here," Ratchet sighed in defeat. "Let me finish, then we'll go back up to your berth."
"Can't argue with that," Jazz said, settling more comfortably in his seat. With his treatment assured, he could afford to rest against Prowl's side.
The music cut off.
Conversation awkwardly stumbled to a halt amid the sound of clinked cubes and shuffling metal steps. Above them, Blaster looked confused, shrugging to the crowd. His sound system had suddenly switched to a government channel.
The light show on the monitor blacked out for a moment, then came up to the news as the government took control of the club's huge vidscreen. The news anchor bot looked as startled as the rest of them, collecting her wits enough to look to the teleprompter only to realize there was no script emerging.
Static snowed across the screen for a moment.
And then the broad, imposing frame—the dramatic cape clasped at the shoulder—the red emblem of the Autobot sigil, an imposing faceplate emblazoned on the shoulder of his armor—Sentinel Prime faced the screen, seated on his throne, leaning over his clasped hands.
Jazz reeled with optics widening behind his visor.
TARGET OF MAXIMUM OPPORTUNITY
Sentinel Prime
Prime Frame Class
Sparked to Prime Function - Tower Iacon
TARGET OF MAXIMUM OPPORTUNITY
No other data…
The club fell into stunned silence. The Prime Address to Cybertron only happened once every vorn. This was far too early. And to see the Prime with no senators flanked behind him, no functionist priests to open with a prayer and benediction for the planet's continued operation…this was wrong. Very wrong.
The Prime stood. Jazz had grabbed Prowl's wrist before he realized it. He felt like he was under attack. Sentinel Prime's optics glared into his very spark.
"Cybertron," the Prime began. "We are under attack. The very girders of our society have been assaulted. The Temple of Iacon—the root file of functionist philosophy, the seat of the Holy See himself—burns even as I speak. Warbuilds have turned traitor. Priests lay dead. The devout, blasted to pieces.
This attack lays bare the corruption and rust at the core of our society."
Sentinel Prime's optics narrowed.
"And that corruption will be dragged out and destroyed."
Jazz felt like he was sinking. The screens in the club were huge, taking up the wall over the bar. The Prime towered over him. Sentinel Prime's voice came from every speaker in the room, and in the tiny silences between his words, Prime's voice echoed outside in the streets, from open windows, as omnipresent as the rain.
"The source of this corruption is known to us. There must be no hesitation in cutting out the ruined component in order to save the whole machine. We have seen the signs of treachery but for far too long we did not act. We must and will act now. We will finally stop every jet and warbuild slaughtering mechs in the wastes between the cities. We will destroy their base of operations. Tarn will fall."
There was pressure under Jazz's hand. He tightened his grip on Prowl's arm to anchor himself. The whole room felt stifled, as if the air had turned so heavy that they couldn't move. He couldn't vent. Something had grabbed his throat and tightened its grip, holding him place.
"Tarn will fall. Those who go to her aid will fall. Those who oppose Cybertron's function must fall. Those who would war against Cybertron itself must fall. No mech may stand against their registered function."
Jazz blinked.
His optical overlay had changed every so slightly.
TARGET OF IMMEDIATE OPPORTUNITY
Sentinel Prime
Prime Frame Class
Sparked to Prime Function - Tower Iacon
TARGET OF IMMEDIATE OPPORTUNITY
No other data…
His master was painfully blunt. The IMMEDIATE tags blinked in red font at him. The sheer impossibility of his master's demand brought the smallest laugh of disbelief from him.
"Cybertron is now under curfew. At the rain's end, return to your berths and remain there."
A death sentence. Mechs in their berths would be easy to find, easy to drag out. Jazz thought of the killing fields of executed mechs. Easy to industrialize their deaths.
Sentinel Prime sat back in his throne, leaning against one side, staring out of the screen as if scrutinizing every mech on Cybertron for disloyalty.
"Follow your function."
The screen cut off to black.
As if the hand around him had let him drop, Jazz fell forward against the bar. He vented heavily, grimacing as his struts ached with each intake.
"Boss?" Wheeljack called out, putting his hands on Jazz's shoulders. "What's wrong?"
"Too much stimulation," Ratchet said between grit denta. "I told him to stay in his berth."
"He would have heard it up there, too," Wheeljack said, giving Jazz a light shake.
"Yeah, but we wouldn't have had to carry his aft." Ratchet managed a long vent, easing a kink in his neck cables. "Gimme a sec. And quit shaking him. He's already busted up."
"Not…that busted," Jazz muttered. He closed his optics, sitting straight just enough that he could rest his helm in his free hand. "Wasn't expecting the damn Prime and a command performance, is all."
"Pfft…'command performance'."
Behind him, DeadEnd folded his arms, glaring at the dark screen. The security mech glared at the screen as if he could see Sentinel Prime standing there, waving his cape. DeadEnd's optics narrowed, and Jazz flinched at the hate radiating off of him.
"Just all high'n mighty up there, acting like high'n mighties always do. Like what they do means something." His engine revved once as his hands flexed. "Let him come down off his throne among the rest of us and see what his rank does for him then."
Jazz gave DeadEnd a long look, much longer than usual, as he gathered up the energy to reply. It took most of Jazz's focus to half-turn on his stool without falling over. And then the rest of his focus to keep his face straight when his visor finally downloaded DeadEnd's data.
DeadEnd
C̶̷̸o̸̸̷m̸̵̶b̴̶̷i̴̵̸n̴̸̵e̴̸̶r̷̶̴ ̴̶̶C̸̶̸l̵̸̶a̷̵̴s̶̸̵s̷̴̷
Function: Light Scout Private Security
Employed at Iacon Club ≆22 - District ⊓
Sparked to Depot A-7308
Civil Incident: insubordination
Travel: Tarn to Nyon to Iacon
Known Aliases: n/a
Weight Class: Light Vehicle
Compatibility: A 7-8
̶̴̵F̶̶̶r̴̶̵a̵̸̷m̵̵̵e̷̶̷: W̸̵̴a̵̶̴r̸̷̴b̶̴̸u̸̴̴i̶̴̵l̴̵̶d̴̴̵
Frame: Vehicle
Data Registry Complete
He had seen glitched text before. He had seen corrupted data in mech profiles, hardly surprising with the sheer amount of mechs in Cybertron. Data copied over vorn would glitch eventually. But this was the first time Jazz had looked longer than a casual glance, allowing more information to load. And it took precious little processing time for the visor to unravel the warped text of DeadEnd's frame type.
W̸̵̴a̵̶̴r̸̷̴b̶̴̸u̸̴̴i̶̴̵l̴̵̶d̴̴̵
W̶a̶r̸b̷u̵i̸l̷d̶
Warbuild
DeadEnd was a warbuild. But there was nothing to indicate it, nothing to betray him as anything other than a civilian bot. No armaments, no thick plating, no heavy cabling. And how did he have his data corrupted, his status on a delay? Someone had to have done that for him. How was he hiding in plain sight?
But DeadEnd was staring at him with a concerned look. Jazz was staring too long. He needed to say something, anything, just to cover for the awkward silence—
"Like…senator Decimus?" Jazz said with a wan smile.
DeadEnd gave a humorless grin to match. He nodded once, but not in agreement. He'd nodded at Prowl, sitting beside Jazz.
"Good thing your tintoy ain't all here right now. Don't want him hearing you say that."
Jazz blinked. And looked quickly at Prowl.
Too quickly. The room started to roll again, and he grabbed at the bar's edge. Even so, he still saw the wide, blank optics and frozen tilt of Prowl's helm. The Enforcer hadn't moved, not because he was shocked by seeing the Prime but because he'd locked up. The only thing keeping Prowl in his seat was Jazz's hand clamped tight on his wrist.
"Oh slag—"
Beside Jazz, Ratchet noticed what they were both looking at. The medic came off his stool, behind Prowl, plugging a wire from his fingertip into Prowl's neck port. A moment later, Chromedome came from somewhere in the back of the club, standing at his partner's side, taking his weight. It was a small production between them to maneuver Prowl's arms over their shoulders, walking him back to the elevator. Jazz was briefly forgotten, and he watched them take Prowl up to his berth.
Something in Prime's voice had made Prowl crash. Too much stimulation, Ratchet had said. Too much information, too much hidden meaning. Prowl had information that Jazz didn't, and whatever the Prime had said had triggered all of those pieces to suddenly start moving.
"Lousy Enforcers," DeadEnd muttered. "Little bureaucrats playing at being soldiers. Oughta stick to traffic tickets…"
Yes, Jazz thought. Prowl was no soldier. Prowl possessed a magnificent cortex, a positronic matrix that could run circles around Jazz. But the memory of the warbuild jet—the mech named Thundercracker—with his massive frame and thick armor and bullets as long as Jazz's fist…
"The Prime thinks Enforcers can fight warbuilds," Jazz said softly.
"No," Deadend said with the certainty of someone who had seen proof. "He knows they're weak. But he'll throw them in front of warbuilds anyway."
DeadEnd laughed once, like a mech about to be shot, struck by the futility of everything.
"Mechs to the slaughter."
Jazz felt his master's insanity snap into place.
A3 wasn't insane.
A3 was the only sane mech in the whole damn planet.
"Sentinel has to die."
DeadEnd didn't answer. But he lightly clasped a hand to Jazz's shoulder, squeezing once. And walked away, moving to stand with Beachcomber and chat.
Ratchet, Prowl, and Chromedome remained in the lounge for a long time, long enough for the rain to let up. Long enough for the world to stop spinning, for Jazz to rest his pedes on the floor without keening.
A breem passed as the rain finally lightened to a drizzle, then nothing. Then another breem went as the final drops of acid slid down the gutters and drains, no longer covering the streets in a layer of poison.
Finally the mechs began to leave the club, standing at the door at first to make sure the last drops were really done, and then quietly rolling out into the darkness. In the small crowd, no one noticed a little black speedster mixing among them. Relieved to be off his pedes and instead spread his weight over four soft tires and solid shock absorbers, Meister drove slowly through the city. All of Iacon had to drive back to their berths, venturing out from the safety of their temporary shelters, and he took the slowest lanes, the thin side roads, making his way toward the outskirts of the city.
If he had to, he would take another cycle or two to rest beneath an overpass, allow his self-repair to catch up a bit. He'd had to give up on Ratchet's promised painkiller, but he'd been honest when he'd said he'd traveled longer on worse. Hopefully he'd be a little more himself when he crossed the desert.
He didn't know how, and he didn't know when. But Sentinel Prime was going to die. It was the only way for Jazz to keep Prowl.
He started to understand what his master meant by making a miracle.