Step to the Beat

Chapter 2: Daddy Had a Job

Rating: PG-13 (referenced murder; creator (illicit) occupation discussion)

Setting: Polyhex, Dead End district; Prewar

(Jazz aged equivalent to 5 years)

Neither twin dared meet their sire's optics. It didn't help much. They could feel his dagger-like stare both through his agitated field and their creator-offspring bonds. "The Business District is off limits to you both for a very good reason," he fumed. One of the sensor-panels on his back, too long and curved to be accurately called doors, but too short for flier-wings, was twitching.

The Business District. A renowned part of the Dead End. Known for its illicit activity that happened on a cycle-by-cycle basis even worse than the rest of the district, it was no place for sparklings. A nice, long, detailed comm. from one of Nightwatch's mechs had told the mechlings' sire that they'd been exactly in that area without creator supervision. Wheelwell had been informed not only about the twins' little stunt in snatching up two cubes of energon from right under a blind seller's nose, but that they'd gotten themselves under the interest of a slaver who was currently much worse for wear in Holding.

"You forced Nightwatch and two of his mecha to leave their posts. That mech you stole from wound up shot."

Both Jazz and Ricochet flinched at the last word. Their sire put obvious emphasis to it.

They looked to their carrier for aid, but he was in a dead recharge in the kitchen. His arm was sprawled across the table, helm rested on that arm, and his other hand loosely grasped a half-empty cube of high-grade. He wouldn't be much help to the twins' predicament.

Wheelwell wrapped one arm around his abdomen as he paced their tiny living room. His other was up, hand covering his mouth. "This has been the second time you've gone to the Business District without supervision from either of us." His sensor-panels flicked toward the kitchen on the word 'us' as a gesture toward their carrier. "What's gotten into you?" His pacing stopped and bright orange optics locked on the twins who'd huddled up in the middle of the small couch. Their arms were locked together and helms low, gazes to the floor. "Well?"

A squeak left Jazz when he tried to speak. Ricochet's hold on his twin tightened, and he looked up at their sire. "You..." His vocoder crackled with the squeak in his own voice. "You're never home, Sire!" he finally managed to blurt. "We miss you!" Jazz nodded his agreement.

Shaking his head, Wheelwell brought both hands up, running them over the top of his helm. The distress he'd let through the bond had stirred their carrier, and Fuse was stumbling into the room shortly after. The shorter, more lithe mech snaked an arm around the sire's waist, using the bigger mech's frame to steady himself. "Ain't bein' too hard on'm're ya?" Fuse slurred, groggily leaning his helm against Wheelwell's chest.

One of Wheelwell's sensor-panels just twitched, but he did put an arm around his smaller mate's neck. "What are we supposed to do with them? They're-"

"Shhh." Fuse put a finger to the sire's lips and about tipped over as he did so. "They're jus' littles. Be nice't'm."

Now both Ricochet and Jazz were looking up. Two pairs of optics, one cerulean, the other carmine, were flicking between their creators. Neither twin dared actually speak for now.

They'd always found it funny to listen to their sire when he got aggravated. His Towers accent became a lot clearer. He'd only ever told the twins that Towers mechs were rich snobs. They didn't understand how their sire could've been one considering their current living conditions. But he sounded smart, like he'd attended the most prestigious of schooling growing up. Sometimes they, even their carrier, got the feeling Wheelwell though himself higher than them. He always talked like it anyway.

In the end, they knew he loved them, though. Whatever had brought him from his life of luxury was in the past, and Wheelwell cared to keep his family safe, fueled, and with a roof over their helms. It still didn't mean the three of them-well, two with Fuse too drunk to realize it-liked the way the sire would talk to the lot of them.

"Sire?" Jazz asked when he'd been quiet for a time.

The voice pulled Wheelwell from what must have been deep thought. He took a moment to resituate himself, somehow getting Fuse onto the couch where he slumped against the backrest, and then set his hard stare back on his creations. "You're to stay in the house until further notice. There will be no visits from your friends, and no sneaking out unless you'd like your sentence drawn out longer."

"But Sire!" Both twins blurted. If someone didn't know any better, their expressions made it look like they were about to be shoved in a dark closet for a decaorn.

"No 'buts'! You've caused enough trouble for your creators and the Watchmechs who have been forced to act as your sparklingsitters lately! They're growing agitated with you both."

The twins gripped each other tightly, their doors low with defeat. However, they glowered at their sire without tearing away from his own gaze. "We ain't done nothin' but play!" Ricochet reasoned.

Jazz nodded and added, "You ain't gonna play with us, an' Carrier ain't gonna, so we hafta find other things to do!"

"Yeah! You're never home, and Carrier's always super drunk or...or..." Rico trailed off, looking to Jazz for aid in the word he couldn't remember.

The smaller mech offered almost coldly without looking away from Wheelwell, "High outta 'is processor?"

Wheelwell covered his mouth again and started his pacing. His sensor-panels were twitching now. "You've been told why-"

"Shut up!"

The unison shout from both twins startled their Carrier back from a dozed state. Fuse looked at them wide-opticked, then lowered his doors when Wheelwell replayed the conversation through their bond for him.

Ricochet had his denta bared, while Jazz's tiny doors were pulled as tight against his back as possible. They held each other tightly, almost as if, if they let go, they'd never see the other again.

"Mechs..." Wheelwell's optics had dimmed. His sensor-panels were still and held at a low angle. "You know your creators love you. Right?"

They nodded.

"You know we'd do anything for the both of you. Right?"

They looked at each other, then nodded again. Their creators could tell, however, that they were speaking through their twin-bond. It was Ricochet who spoke up. "How come you don't quit, then?" The question was directed at both carrier and sire. "We wanna see you both more!"

"Yeah..." Jazz added. "We don't get ta see you much, Sire. A-and Carrier's-" He cut himself off at the grimace from their smaller creator.

Approaching the small couch, and kneeling in front of the twins, Wheelwell put a big hand on each of their shoulders. "I've gotta do my job mechs," he said while falling back into the more casual, Dead End accent.

Ricochet's grip on his smaller brother tightened, and he turned his helm away from their sire. "What if ya get shot doin' your job?" Distress sparked through Jazz's field at that, and Rico's mirrored it as they held each other.

Wheelwell looked to the carrier for aid. Upon realizing he wouldn't be getting it, he vented a sigh, closed his optics for a moment, then looked back to the twins. "It's a risk I gotta take. Wanna starve?"

"Wheel-..."

"Hush, Fuse." A stern look from Wheelwell silenced the carrier. "Do ya? S'a serious question, mechs."

"No..." they both answered, shaking their helms.

"Then understand I'm doin' what I've got to. To keep you and your carrier fueled. Right?" He didn't wait for an answer and just plowed through what he wanted to say. "Right. I know what I do's dangerous. S'why I'm real careful." Wheelwell accepted his mate's hand when the smaller mech reached out. He held it, clasped tightly, holding the drunk carrier steady so he could lean forward off the couch to rest his helm against Wheelwell's shoulder. "I ain't losin' you three. Got it?"

The mechlings nodded. "Got it!" they chirped in unison.

Wheelwell nodded, and then started to stand while guiding Fuse to his pedes, too. When Jazz tipped his helm, the sire stopped and copied the action. "Can't ya both find another job though?" the smaller twin asked. "Carrier's...uhm...uh...?" The mechling couldn't think of the word until Ricochet offered it through the bond. He nodded to twin and continued, "Carrier's cli-ents aren't good mechs. And yours have blasters!"

"Yeah! Aren't ya scared one've 'em's gonna hurt you?" Rico added.

The grip the twins held each other with had relaxed a little, though they did still have their arms locked together. They looked up at Wheelwell with wide optics.

Fuse held at his side so the carrier wouldn't fall over, Wheelwell shook his head. "Jobs're hard to come by in this area, mechs. We do what we've gotta to keep you two online."

A down cast look crossed the twins' faces, but they nodded anyway. "...Right."