A Decepticon goes in for a job interview, and nobody is telling the truth. But who doesn't tell a few white lies now and then?
Title: White Lies
Warning: Yet another AU where the Decepticons didn't win the war. There were no last stands. There were no martyrs or hidden rebel cells. There was only defeat and trying to live in the aftermath. Possible dubcon situations. Obviously, the D.J.D. reveal in MTMTE futzed everything in this fic up, so as of 9/14/16 I'm taking down the parts to edit and rewrite to align with canon. Also in the hopes of continuing past where the divergence stopped me.
Rating: PG-13
Continuity: More Than Meets The Eye AU, G1 influence.
Characters: Decepticon Justice Division, Jazz, Swerve, Pharma.
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors.
Motivation (Prompt): There was a beautiful picture by FelixFellow, and then I had an idea. It mutated. TwistyRocks got me to write the first part, just to see what happened. Due to the need to write poverty-level Cybertron, I had to make up monetary amounts less than a shanix.
Shanix
hanix (half a shanix)
quanix (quarter shanix)
einix (eighth of a shanix)
nix (eight to an einix, sixteen to a quanix, 32 to a hanix, 64 to a shanix)
[* * * * *]
Pt. 2: Dealing with the Devil.
[* * * * *]
Ugh, the neon got worse up close. Tarn dimmed his optics in self-defense going through the door, but fortunately the concentration of garish lights stopped at the entryway. Once inside, the reception desk had a single bright lamp focused on its surface, but the neon tubes swirled away to a bar at one end of the room and a stage at the other end. Footlights studded a cleared area in front of the stage that likely held dancers during open hours.
The rest of the club stretched out into shadows. Lighting and seating delineated the club into sections: public party and intimate privacy. Unlike many clubs that had tried for it, this place succeeded. The tacky lighting around the bar and stage became a stylish contrast to the subdued atmosphere throughout the main floor.
Cubbies full of tables and low, comfortable couches lined the walls, and each table out on the main floor had dim, diffused lighting for a cozy feeling. Thick pillar supports discretely divided the room up without blocking line of sight to the stage. Taking advantage of the spacious club interior, the floor plan catered to different size frametypes. Chair height varied, as did the tables, allowing for plenty of room between tables to move about without interrupting conversations by shoving chairs aside. Tesarus might have had trouble, but Tarn threaded the maze of tables easily.
He found himself nodding approval. First impression aside, this was the kind of place planned out to the smallest detail. The attention to comfort made the difference between sitting down for a quick drink or settling down for the full show, and that impressed him. He'd expected a sleazy dive masquerading as a class act, but everything looked clean. Serviceable. There was a strong, smoky tint to the air as if something had been burnt here, but it wasn't overpowering. He couldn't pinpoint what it was. Leftovers from a past stage show, perhaps, but it didn't do more than register on his chemical receptors before his air filters eliminated it.
Glum resignation tightened his treads. Despite the gaudy neon, this was the kind of club he'd be interested in, provided the stage shows were any good. He could tell from the ceiling shape that the acoustics around the stage were excellent. Music would broadcast out, but conversation from the tables wouldn't be heard halfway across the club. That was a tricky piece of sound management.
However, this club revolved around different attractions. The stage shows might be a draw, but the tactful screening around the tables and couches in the deep, dark cubbies allowed privacy for other entertainment. Private entertainment, as it were. What set Off Track apart from Maccadam's Old Oil House wasn't the location or interior decorating.
A staircase beside the bar led upward, and a neon blue sign next to it blared an advertisement for 'Private Rooms Available!' Tarn really didn't want to think about what they were rented out for. His systems were upset enough as it was.
Because while he ran a critical optic over the club's seating arrangements, the rest of him braced for applying as its...decor. As one of the fixtures that drew people in. As nice as this place seemed, his thoughts stalled out at the 'host club' part.
He didn't want to work here.
Yes, well, what Tarn wanted had no effect on reality. He wanted Lord Megatron alive and whole, the Senate overthrown, and life on Cybertron reformed by the Decepticon Cause. He wanted his place and purpose back, but that wasn't going to happen no matter how much time he wasted on fruitless wishes.
Tarn's engine's threatened to turn over, but Kaon's meticulously installed suppression chip hissed static below the surface of his mind. It interrupted the downward spiral of his thoughts. The tank reset his optics, cycled a long vent, and calmed himself. The smoky scent in the air pinged his sensors again, and he concentrated fiercely on the distraction. Anger served no purpose. The war was over. The Decepticons were defeated.
Vos needed to take the teaching exam, and the rest of his unit needed fuel. Tarn would work here, and he'd slagging well be grateful that Soundwave had found him the job. If he could work at a call center doing customer service, then he could work as waitstaff and - whatever else the position demanded. Shareware in a place like this had to earn decent wages. He should focus on that.
The brief rev of his engine caused Jazz to glance back. "Second thoughts?" the Autobot asked.
Tarn cycled air once more before trusting his vox box. He could do this. "Not at all. It lives up to its reputation," he said in a conversational voice. "Has it been open long?"
Jazz's smile had sharp edges. "A couple months. It's why we're hiring, y'know? Finally busy enough to need more hosts workin'."
The sick clutch in his circuits squeezed tighter. Either employee turnover was unduly high, or the current employees had reached the limits of their endurance. Best-case scenario was one where management encouraged quality over quantity in service as well as seating. Maybe the club's hosts didn't have time to accommodate more customers without skimping on the, ah, full experience.
There were times he was astoundingly glad he wore a mask. Whatever his expression, he kept his voice level. "That's good."
"For you? Sure is." The former Head of Special Operations didn't laugh, but he didn't need to. Tarn already knew how fortunate he was, how badly he needed this job, and how much his situation amused Jazz. The Autobot had to be gloating. One of Megatron's right-hand mechs was humbly asking him for employment. In Jazz's place, Tarn wouldn't have bothered hiding how delicious the power tasted.
As long as Jazz kept the mockery covert, Tarn would endure the humiliation of begging work from a former enemy. Swallowing his pride wasn't a new skill, and the post-war crash course in relearning it hadn't been gentle. Cybertron's job market was brutal on the losing side. Like most Decepticons he knew, he'd endured some truly terrible job interviews where managers had used their position of power to take war-related frustrations out on him. So far, his employers had been too afraid to do more than slap penalties on his job record and fire him, but every business willing to hire from the ghetto had warnings whispered about cruel opportunists hanging the threat of unemployment over their workers to extort extra from them. Usually it was longer hours at less pay, but Iacon's sublevels echoed with worse stories. Yet Decepticons still lined up to apply. What else could they do? Workers who protested the treatment or demanded basic rights found themselves escorted straight to the door by security, and oh look, somebody less subversive was right outside eager to fill the brand new job vacancy.
Megatron's message of revolution had resounded so powerfully among the oppressed masses because they were oppressed. And no matter what Optimus Prime's speeches promised, Tarn didn't see any new laws trickling down to protect the Decepticons now occupying the lowest bracket in the labor force. Perhaps the Autobots meant it to be punishment for the war. Maybe they saw it as keeping the Decepticons in line. Most likely they just plain didn't care to improve a stranger's life if it wouldn't benefit them somehow.
It left the Decepticons with no option but to put their heads down and get used to defeat. The spark-crushing everyday submission didn't feel any better than it had the first time, but rebelling against the corrupt system had sunk them even lower than where they'd started. Resignation got a mech further in this life than futile anger.
Gradually, job by job, the pre-war patience of a powerless nobody was creeping back into Tarn's life. It allowed him to endure Jazz's amusement, and he reminded himself that Soundwave kept contact with this mech. Jazz was as close as Tarn had to an ally going into this interview.
Jazz bounced up to the bar ahead of him, performing a skip-hop that landed his aft on the bartop with the ease of long familiarity. One leg crossed over the other in a flashy flip, ankle-tire running down the opposite lower leg in a tantalizing show. The sleek curve of his hood reflected brilliant neon as he leaned back on his hands. If Tarn hadn't been tense and anxious, he might have paused to appreciate the sight. Autobot or not, Jazz was a fine specimen of a groundframe.
A casual helm toss back let Jazz call behind the bar. "Hey, Swerve! Boss, got time for an interview?"
"Whoa, really? Got a bite on that ad already? Wow!"
Assumptions would trip Tarn up yet. The voice came from lower than he'd been looking. His optics snapped downward right as a tray of glasses heaved up onto the bar from knee-height, and he belatedly noticed the mech digging in the cabinets under the counter. Oh. This unknown owner/manager/Swerve person was a minibot.
It wasn't that Tarn had a problem with the idea of taking orders from a smaller mech. A lot of people were smaller than him, including every manager from his last six jobs. Facing the reality put him a touch off-kilter, however. Merit had had its place among the Decepticons, but physical might had made right more often than not. Fighters had prospered. Officers had tended to be large and intimidating, so having a boss a quarter his size weirded him out. He'd have felt equally discomfited taking orders from Kaon or Vos.
Alright, not quite as much. The level of awkward here couldn't be matched by military hierarchy.
Especially since Swerve looked over the bar, saw him, and froze like a terrified petrorabbit. It might have been his size, but Tarn spotted the minibot's Autobot insignia and winced. Just his luck.
Right, running damage control before even introducing himself. This did not bode well for the interview. "I apologize for showing up without contacting you ahead of time. It seems a mutual acquaintance of ours," he cast a pointed glance at Jazz, "felt I'd be ideal for the job. He must not have contacted you directly before referring me here. I'm sorry if my timing has inconvenienced you..?" He trailed off in a delicate question.
Senator Shockwave had taught him well, once upon another life. Impeccable politeness acted as an offensive weapon if the initial volley hit the mark. It all depended on aim and timing.
Tarn's lips curved into a smug smile behind his mask as Swerve jerked under a direct hit to formal manners. "No, no! It's okay, I wasn't doing anything important, and anyway, I was hoping somebody would respond soon, so this is fine. It's just fine! Don't apologize!" Broad hands hurriedly pushed the tray of glasses aside, clearing the bar because it'd be rude to conduct an interview while not appearing to pay attention to the potential employee, and they were being polite, so polite. "It's great that you're here now, really! Just great. We'll have time to talk before the club opens, and yeah. Yeah."
Perfect. The Autobot was on the defensive. Time to gracefully back off before he seemed aggressive instead of polite.
Tarn bowed his head in deference to Swerve's insistence that they talk. "Thank you for your time. Although I am beginning to think my acquaintance failed to consider that the establishment might not be geared toward mechs like myself," he said, giving the words an apologetic cast as if blaming himself for the minibot's reaction to seeing a Decepticon in his club.
He balanced his voice between quiet and a hearty boom. Too much volume combined with his size was menacing; too little came off as sinister. Too far either way sounded like he was trying too hard. Talking like a 'normal' mech took more effort than most realized, and after years in command, Tarn was out of practice.
The balancing act worked, today. Swerve's flustered scramble relaxed a tad, or at least the panicked babble of excuses tapered off. "Uh, right. No, wait, that's, um, great! It's great. Everybody gets a chance to recycle all that faction stuff into something new, that's what I say, so this's great. Just gre - good. It's good." Obviously, Swerve didn't have a clue where to start. He shot a quick glance at Jazz in a less-than-subtle plea for help, visor pale, but Jazz had his attention on a ding in his forearm. No help was forthcoming.
After fumbling for a minute, the minibot regrouped and smiled so wide seeing it made Tarn's face hurt. "I always wanted to make a Decepticon friend after the war ended. New beginnings! Right?"
Tarn's vents closed, but his immediate wariness didn't otherwise show. Swerve expected a friend as well an employee? That didn't inspire any joy in him. He preferred his professional relationships to be exactly that: professional.
Ah, frag. Maybe the 'friendship' Swerve wanted was professional.
He hated this scrap so much.
Regretting every step he'd taken tonight, Tarn hid his clenched fists behind his back and managed a shallow nod. "Right."
His agreement came out weak, but Swerve didn't seem to need input once he'd gotten started talking. "Right! And that's why I put out the advertisement for a 'Con. War's over, and I figure I can do my part to get over dividing everyone up. I can't be the only one who wants to actually sit down and talk to somebody like you, y'know? War's over, time to move on! You'll be a," he hesitated, highly expressive face showcasing doubt for half a second before cheer bulldozed it. Swerve beamed and hurried on, "A novelty! A draw, like a technimal at the zoo only, er, not. No no, not like that at all, but something unique, anyway. Kind of a commercial thing in and of itself, yeah?"
Dumbfounded, Tarn took a step back as the minibot threw his hands up to picture an imaginary poster starring him dead center.
"Big guy like you might scare some folks," hello understatement, "but think of it as a chance to sit down with somebody who could of killed us!" Even Jazz tilted his head to give Swerve a baffled look at that, but the mech couldn't be repressed. Once his mouth got started, it couldn't be shut off. "Tame murderer of the club! It's like a thrill ride for danger-seekers, except sitting down at a table." He squinted through the frame made by his thumbs and forefingers at the purple Decepticon emblem-mask staring back at him. "Drinks with a killer!"
Tarn's mouth worked, but he couldn't find words. Shockwave had taught him to weaponize politeness against individuals, but this level of tactlessness could stun a battalion.
Jazz couldn't keep a straight face. Covering a giant smile with both hands, he doubled over to laugh silently at the Decepticon's utterly befuddled disbelief. His doors bobbed in mirth as he picked up some of the tact lying about on the floor. "Swerve. Boss, that ain't the best plan, I think. Not the kinda image we wanna project here, yeah? We're more about relaxin' and having a good time than fear for life an' limb."
Swerve deflated. "We could make it work…"
Tarn found his voice at last. "That's not the kind of image I want to project," he said, rough and a touch uneven. He was a killer, but the point of masking his face and taking a different name was to hide his past. His unit couldn't afford publicity. "I sincerely doubt many people would find the idea of sitting down with a threat to be appealing, in any case. My skill as a conversationalist would be a far better advertisement than anything so…" He struggled to find a diplomatic way to phrase it. Crass? Exploitative? Humiliating?
"War-like?" Jazz asked dryly. His gaze stayed steady despite the amusement wiggling his doors. He knew what the former leader of the D.J.D. was thinking. A mech desperate for employment would play whatever part he had to get the job, but rubbing defeat in Tarn's face by making it a selling point was pitiless as well as tactless.
The saboteur-turned-host turned a conciliatory smile on his boss. "What he said, Swerve. War's over, and it's kinda poor taste remindin' everyone of the fighting. We'll have enough of that with that on the floor." He nodded at Tarn's mask, and the Decepticon inclined his head in return. It was a valid point.
Elbows on the bar and lips pressed together unhappily, Swerve offered a half-sparked shrug. "It was idea, what can I say. You got to admit that you're going to be a tough sell." He waved at Tarn, visor squinched up as his mouth pulled to the side. "No offense or anything, but not everybody's looking to make friends with a 'Con. Customers come in to have fun. None of the other hosts are as big as you, and you got that mask, and while I'm sure your personality's wonderful, it's the first impression you've got to nail in this business."
Tarn honestly wasn't sure if he should feel insulted by that. The mask unnerved many people, but he'd always felt his body, at the very least, was quite handsome. Surely not everyone in Iacon desired the same frametype? His size and altmode were different from the norm this far up-level, but that shouldn't turn customers off from buying his services. The promise of submission available upon purchase seemed like it'd make him more desirable, when he thought about it.
Not that he wanted to think about it, but too late now.
Somewhat disturbed, he spoke without thinking. "I would think my appearance would make me more appealing to some."
Shame heated Tarn's tubes the second he said it out loud, but it earned a bark of laughter. Grinning Jazz shook his head. "Kinky as a wire tangle, but you're pro'bly right on that. Might work if we pitch it right. You're somethin' different than what we've got on offer now, so maybe we can take that angle. Draw in new customers."
The way Jazz eyed him, it wouldn't surprise Tarn if the SpecOps mech could see the embarrassment heating his systems at the idea of being the newest item available for purchase. Cold drenched him a second later as the knowing look turned skeptical, sweeping him from treads to feet as if searching for something.
"Still…I dunno. Y'look dangerous. Dangerous don't sell."
Didn't it? Tarn sincerely doubted Jazz kept the dark deeds done during the war completely under wraps, not if that sharp smile meant anything. He understood it to mean Jazz wanted proof. The Autobot wanted him to do the full song and dance to prove he could do the job. More than the job. Jazz wanted to know Tarn understood his place. He wanted to know the club wasn't hiring a Decepticon loyalist on the verge of snapping, that Tarn had learned his lesson.
What had his life come to that he had to persuade an Autobot he could submit? Liquid heat drenched his internal parts as Tarn softened his stance from the military-correct parade rest he'd unconsciously assumed. He'd have to get used to deliberately displaying his best features if pretty was what sold, here. "I have no intention of starting trouble," he said, "but a hint of danger is attractive to some. First impressions are, of course, important, but I'm proficient at drawing conversation out of those who are unsure what to make of me at first." In other words, he had a lot of experience speaking with small, scared-lubeless coworkers. "I assume that persuading customers to spend money at the bar and," he refused to look at the neon advertisement for private rooms, "elsewhere is part of the job?"
"Hosts get a quarter of every drink and fuel purchase their customers make," Jazz confirmed easily.
A quarter of every purchase? Tarn's optics flicked over to skim the menu behind the bar, widening as he read the prices. A quarter of that?
He tried not to swallow too loudly, cycling air hard to cover the creak as his throat intakes tightened. The shareware here were paid more than he'd thought, and there was a sudden urgency to his words no matter how carefully he chose them. "I can be quite persuasive when it comes to getting customers to spend money. I had the highest sales record for the call center I worked at prior to this." He dropped his vox box into a deeper tone, layering a suggestive overtone onto the low purr that had seduced customers into upgrading their vidsystems and commlines without questioning the price. "And that was only using my voice."
Feeling foolish, he brought one hand up to rest on his hip in a cocksure pose. He was no pin-up mech. Jazz's unreadable look became an assessing stare instead of dismissal he'd been expecting, however, so Tarn counted it a minor victory.
Until Jazz spoke. "I've heard 'bout your voice, mech."
Ice ran down his wires. Well, that was ominous. Was there anything Autobot Special Operations hadn't known by the end of the war? He met Jazz's gaze, but he was far too aware he'd be the one to look away first. Having his defenses stripped away left him raw and vulnerable, waiting anxiously for the final strike on his bared protoform once Jazz finished toying with him.
When Swerve interrupted the unnerving staredown, Tarn almost thanked him.
As fast as he'd gained enthusiasm, the minibot had lost it. He'd been frowning at the bar counter while Tarn and Jazz spoke, but the dark thrum of the tankformer's voice broke into his thoughts. "Wow. That's - okay, did not see that coming." Impressed, he blinked up at the Decepticon for a long moment as the surprise faded. "I get why you'd fit in at a call center. Those guys can talk almost as much as me, but they always hang up on me after an hour or so. And sales experience! That's got to count for something. I get that, I really do. We could use that in here."
Jazz looked down at his boss somewhat fondly, like a teacher with a particularly exasperating pupil. "Don't make him any smaller, though."
They all knew the real issue, and Tarn gave up the polite pretense of ignoring it. He lost the uncomfortable pose, too. It just didn't fit him. "My size isn't nearly the issue that my former faction is, is it?"
Swerve's visor slid to the side. "Yeeeeeeeah. It's not that I don't want the chance to get to know you - hey, great! - but the whole. Mask. Thing." His smile became a stiff near-grimace. "It's more in-your-face than intimate, sooooo. Don't suppose you could, y'know, take it off?"
Jazz's smile turned predatory even as Tarn shook his head. "Aw, why not?" the saboteur asked, faux-innocent.
The Decepticon leveled a flat, unamused look at him before tipping his head back. He tapped one finger on the visible weld line under his chin. "It doesn't come off." It used to, but like Vos' mask, the D.J.D. had decided to eliminate the possibility of an accidental reveal. Besides, the Brand Law prohibited him from taking it off even if he wanted to remove it. Something Jazz knew full well.
Unlike Swerve, who flinched back one second but stared in eager curiosity the next. "Didn't that hurt?" he blurted out. "I mean, well, I mean that. Didn't it hurt?"
The minibot's blunt reactions were refreshingly open compared to Jazz's cutting shrewdness. The contrast had Tarn thoroughly off-balance. Jazz lowered his head until only a sliver of a wicked grin could be seen under the shadow of his helm, and Tarn refused to react as the suppression chip blocked combat protocol activation yet again.
"Yes," he said shortly to Swerve. "It hurt."
"Oh." Swerve processed that. "I guess if you can't take it off, you can't take it off, but that's going to make things harder. When I put out the ad for hiring a Decepticon, I didn't mean someone so - huh, that sounds really bad now that I say it out loud." Tarn glared harder, and the minibot busied himself unloading the glasses off the forgotten tray. "Say! Do you want a drink? On the house!"
Empty fuel tanks whined. Tarn set his teeth. "No, thank you."
The familiarity of bartending soothed Swerve, it seemed, and his nervous chatter slowed to something more naturally friendly. "Aw, come on. Nobody turns down a free drink. Sit down and take a load off." He already had a glass under the nearest spigot, drawing off a hefty mug of a light pink engex that bubbled enticingly.
When he set it on the bar, fuel gauge readings popped up all over Tarn's HUD. The Decepticon stared at the mug through the vivid red warnings but didn't touch it. "Really, I'm fine."
The mug had been large in the minibot's hands but would be a small drink for him. Small or not, drinking it on empty tanks would result in a burst of too much energy as his systems burnt through it. His scant portion of energon from this morning wouldn't be much of a buffer between him and the overcharge. He'd be fendered in a matter of minutes and crash into stasis right afterward as systems sent into overdrive gobbled up his remaining reserves.
Jazz gave him a sly look, and Tarn pushed the gauge readings aside in order to pointedly look at Swerve instead of the drink. Time to break out the manners arsenal, it seemed. "By the way, I don't think we've been properly introduced. I'm Tarn." He extended the job application as he spoke, hoping to turn the conversation toward an actual job interview instead of a test of his patience.
Swerve looked up from handing Jazz an elegantly tapered flute of engex right as the application entered his personal space, and the minibot took it on reflex. Triumph!
"Huh? Oh. Nice to meetcha, Tarn. I'm Swerve, owner and bartender of Off Track. Here. The club." He surveyed the room proudly. "Got an agreement with Blurr, but it's my place 100%."
The blue visor dissecting Tarn down to the processor core cut to the side abruptly, away from Swerve. Jazz covered it by taking a sip before setting his glass aside, and when he looked at Tarn again, he seemed as amused as ever. "You know who I am. Work here as lead host an' stage manager, an' I rock the beats on request." He tipped his helm toward the empty stage.
Tarn didn't give any sign of noticing Jazz's momentary lapse, but he had. There was something that wasn't being said, but the saboteur's smile gave no hint of what it was, so Tarn merely nodded. "Charmed. Now if you don't mind, I was hoping someone could tell me more about the job..?" Not a push, precisely, but a strong nudge to get on with talking about the position itself.
He didn't want the job, but he needed it. Therefore, he had to learn about it despite how his processors recoiled from absorbing further information.
"Eager, huh? That's a good sign. We need more get-up-n-go around here," Swerve said, already half a page into the application. "Business is good, but it can always be better, I say."
"Are you saying I don't hustle enough?" asked Jazz. Black fingers idly traced the rim of the glass as he shook his head. "I gotta get some bustlin' in my hustlin'."
"I'm saying we've got too much bustle for your hustle, and we need more hustlers to handle our bustlers." Swerve's free hand snagged Jazz's glass and topped it off under the appropriate tap, pinkie finger tweaking the tab as his other two fingers held the slender flute under the nozzle. Full, it slid back onto the counter beside Jazz's hip. Tarn was impressed the minibot did it without looking up from reading the application. "Unless you changed you mind on my cloning idea, we've got to bring in some newbies, and I want mechs who're looking to work."
Jazz's lips quirked. "Yessir, Swerve sir. Hirin' new hosts to horn in on my game it is."
"It's not your game."
The abrupt change in the minibot's demeanor startled Tarn. His optics darted between the two Autobots. Swerve's open cheer had closed off. A belligerent look turned his visor a dark navy, and that expressive mouth turned down at the corners in what wasn't quite a frown. He had the look of a mech poked in a tender new weld.
"Right, boss." Jazz didn't flinch or lean away, but Tarn noticed how fast the easy acceptance came.
Swerve's shoulders relaxed down as quick as they'd tensed up. Interesting. Tarn marked every sign of tension he saw before they disappeared, marking them as important warning signs for if he worked here. Mental note to himself: never challenge Swerve's ownership. The minibot seemed to enjoy some joking around, but question his right to the club and even an employee like Jazz wasn't safe from his temper. Or perhaps they were friends. Tarn couldn't tell how close these two were to each other.
He'd have to keep a close optic on that.
"You've worked at a lot of places," Swerve said, and the Decepticon's interest nosedived into apprehension. "Call centers, yep, one or two of those. I see it. Lots of office positions."
He didn't need to say anything further. Just mentioning it aloud pointed out the oddity.
Before the war, a mech of Tarn's frametype working in an office would have been nearly impossible. His type was good for manual labor and nothing else, as the Functionalist Council had decreed. They had been lobbying to make it illegal for someone like him to even attempt seeking a job that fit his vocal talents instead of his frametype. Tarn didn't know Swerve's political leanings, but anyone with the slightest bit of Functionalist sympathy would see an office job on a tankformer's resume as the mark of a malcontent. A troublemaker.
To Tarn's mild surprise, Swerve just nodded. "I used to be a metallurgist before I joined the Autobots. War made me want to try something else, and here I am as a bartender."
He smiled up at the tank, proud, and Tarn stared at him in speechless affront. Possessing a talent that didn't fit one's frametype had once resulted in empurata for mechs caught by the Senate, as Tarn could attest, and the right to be more than a frametype had been a foundation tenet of the Decepticon Cause. Now an Autobot benefited from what the Decepticons had fought and lost for, and Tarn had no idea how to respond to that kind of irony.
Swerve chattered on. "It's not for everybody, but how do you know what you don't like it if you don't try? I always wanted to open a bar of my own, and it took me a while, but I got it. The things I had to do to get this place open were crazy, just crazy, but I had a friend, y'know? Just got to have friends in the right places."
Tarn's spark twisted in his chest, and for a second all he could remember was Senator Shockwave, before and after. Not everyone had the right friends at the right time, and sometimes those friends paid a terrible price.
"How many times you been fired, Tarn?" Jazz asked when it seemed Swerve was going to launch into a lengthy story of his life.
The minibot took the change in topic without missing a beat. "Does look like your Previous Employment section goes on and on. Mine looks like that, too, but all of my entries are from - let's just say I talk a lot and call it good. Some people can't take a joke," he muttered subvocal before continuing brightly, "I don't want to call all these past supervisors. It'd take all night. What's the deal, tank'Con?"
From the way he said it, Tarn thought it was supposed to be some sort of nickname, but any indignation he felt for being reduced to an altmode and faction slur vanished when Swerve peered over the application form at him. Every alarm he had blared warning. His treads locked down as he took a step back. The suppression chip activated, hissing interference that gave him an instant processor ache as it turned his thoughts to static and white noise, but it was only just enough to prevent him from accessing dormant weapon systems.
For a split second, the affable, chatterbox minibot had the look of someone who listened to everyone he talked to, and Tarn remembered exactly where he was standing: enemy territory. Small and loudmouthed didn't mean Swerve wasn't a threat. Nobody suspected a nervous babbler to gather intel on his customers, but even the most sullen bartenders Tarn had ever met held an huge richness of information on their clientele. Bartenders were the dismissed, overlooked spies.
The best agents were the ones whose covers were air-tight. The Pet had been proof of that, and the former Vos hadn't slipped up until the very end. Swerve…Swerve could be even more dangerous. Tarn should have remembered how deep the Autobot agents dug their cover personas. He should have remembered that part of Jazz's notoriety came from his ability to make connections everywhere he went. The mech could make an ally out of his own executioner, and this minibot supposedly employed him.
No wonder Swerve defended his position as club owner. It didn't take much to see the strings pulled the other direction.
Then Swerve gave that broad, cheerful smile, and he was just a minibot with an inability to control his runaway mouth. Tarn wondered if he'd imagined it.
He shook the thought away, because he had a question to answer. "Ah…I have, unfortunately, lost quite a few jobs because of circumstances beyond my control. You see, my frame intimidated several of my former coworkers into filing complaints against me, and it seemed that despite my best efforts, there were irreconcilable differences between management and myself in one or two of the other positions I held."
Bullet points from job interview guides he'd gleaned from the infonet popped up on his HUD. Talking badly about former jobs implied he'd speak ill about the job he was currently applying for. Tarn changed tactics, projecting earnest reassurance through his voice as hard as he could. "I obviously cannot do much about changing my appearance, but I do my best to ensure my job performance makes up for any misunderstandings caused by poor first impressions. Putting my coworkers - and customers - at ease is a high priority for me. I prefer communication in the workplace to be as free of unfounded fear as possible. It creates strife where there is none and hampers productivity."
That was pulled almost word-for-word from a particular self-help guide Kaon liked, so he hoped Swerve didn't read guides for successful job interviews. He also hoped the minibot didn't ask about the petty theft accusation. He didn't have a graceful way to evade talking about it.
"That's good," Swerve said as he read through the application. "What kind of job skills are you bringing to this position, Tarn?"
On the one hand: wonderful, this was a question the guides had prepared him to answer. Every job interview had at least a short period where the interviewer invited the applicant to sell himself, and Tarn was an excellent salesmech. He had a list of accomplishments and positive personality traits to tote out for display.
On the other hand: he had no idea what were considered job skills for this position.
And Jazz was smirking at him again. Fantastic.
Hesitation never looked good during an interview. "Well, I, ah. I am experienced in selling different kinds of product, as you can see from my resume. Ah, selling customers drinks and…whatever else is on the menu wouldn't be much of a change from upselling customers on products during a troubleshooting call. No matter how frustrated the client, I've never had a problem turning the conversation toward some sort of underlying need they've come to me to fulfill." Was that too much? Did he had to be blunt about this, or was innuendo enough? He sincerely doubted his meaning went unnoticed, as Swerve nodded along with his points and Jazz's visor sparkled with amusement. "And, ah, my talent for conversation was one of the reasons I was referred to this job. I'm well-versed in classic literature and current events, including politics and finances as well as the more standard popular entertainment media." Since gossiping with his coworkers hadn't appealed, he'd had a lot of time on his hands at the call centers to spend surfing the infonet, reading and watching things he normally couldn't stand.
"I can sit down and talk with anyone in a casual or more intense setting." Hint hint, nudge nudge. "As for catering to customer demands…" He tried and failed to make himself address specific job skills. Describing his ability and willingness to interface for money stuck in his throat. The words were there. He just gagged on saying them, physically unable to engage his vox box to spit them out.
After a couple false starts, he managed a feeble statement of, "Customer service isn't an area I fall short in."
Behind the glass raised to his lips, Jazz tried not to crack up. Shame and hatred burnt in equal amounts under Tarn's spark. The fire flared despite the damping pressure from the suppression chip. The saboteur silently laughed at his clenched fists and lowered optics.
Mercifully, perhaps intentionally, Swerve seemed oblivious to the byplay as he read. "Give 'em what they want? If the price is right, if you get my drift. But that all sounds great, really good. What do you consider your biggest flaw?"
Okay, the minibot must have a pre-set series of questions. Was the giant assault tank altmode and purple Decepticon mask not obvious enough? "I've always thought it a design flaw that some of my inbuilt systems draw energy even when not in use, especially upon transformation," Tarn said dryly, and Jazz doubled over snorting muffled laughter up his intake. "My fueling expenses are higher than I'd like because of that."
Tankformers diverted a lot of fuel to their weaponry on automatic, and bringing double fusion cannons up to standby mode consumed part of that fuel. Tarn wanted to transform so badly the need roiled in the back of his mind even now, but his unit barely made enough money to supply basic living expenses. Every means of conserving power had to be taken, so transformation was a luxury he couldn't afford.
Jazz's laughter caught Swerve's audio at last, and the minibot looked at the other Autobot in confusion. When his visor widened, Tarn braced for more laughter.
"Oh, slag!" The untouched mug of engex was swept off the counter as Swerve burst into motion, expression bizarrely distraught. "I didn't mean to - look, I've got some leftover energon chips from last night, or no, wait a second and I'll whip up something in the back. Nobody's in yet but I'm not a half-bad chemist if I say so myself, so hold on and I'll make you something."
"That's not necessary! No, that's - I'm not offended. I'm fine! I didn't mean anything by what I said, I would never - " How. How on Cybertron could someone make this whole situation more embarrassing. How? It didn't seem physically possible, yet here Tarn was with his hands up as if to placate this infuriating little mech. He had to stop Swerve before he zipped into the back to offer him energon like some sort of charity case. Energon for a starving mech who made passive-aggressive statements in an attempt to get a handout during a job interview, as if the offer of a free drink wasn't enough. "I'm fine, I don't need anything, please just - don't. I apologize if it seemed like I was trying to ask for - "
"Seriously, it's okay! Hospitality, right? Right, it's fine, I know not everybody can afford decent energon. It kind of explains why your plating is so dull, now that I think about it, but - "
"My paint's matte!" Not exactly, but he'd gone for a dull finish instead of a good waxing because he hadn't known he'd be selling his body for this job. Also because he was underfueled, and it'd show up as ugly swatches where the polish absorbed into his plating instead of shining the surface.
Which Swerve immediately picked up on, and Tarn's shoulders hunched the barest amount as the minibot wagged a finger at him. "No it's not. I'm a metallurgist, remember? I know the difference between a painted surface and color nanites, and those are underfueled nanites. Sit down, and I'll find something for a snack!"
The chiding gesture turned into a finger pointing at a barstool, and Tarn winced a second time. He'd offended Swerve by lying, and he'd offend him more if he refused the free fuel at this point. He couldn't afford that.
Pride felt like broken glass going down as he swallowed it. He took the seat as ordered, and Jazz laughed without sound at his elbow, all but vibrating in glee.
Tarn folded his hands together on the bartop tight enough to make the joints creak, but he coughed softly to loosen his vox box enough for a quiet, "Thank you." To spite the saboteur, if nothing else. He could be gracious. He didn't want the so-called 'generosity' being forced on him, but he would fragging well be polite about accepting it, since he didn't have much choice about the matter.
Swerve started toward the back but whirled around partway there. "Don't sneak away while my back's turned. You still want the job?"
He didn't want the job. He didn't want to be pitied, given energon and employment out of a smarmy sense of obligation to the poor or whatever savior complex occasionally motivated Autobots and neutrals to toss a few shanix into the gutter for the beaten-down mechs in the lowest classes.
The system could have been changed.
Could have been. Hadn't been, however, and the war was over. This was the life of a loser, and he'd better get used to it.
"Yes," said the Decepticon, defeated. "I want the job." Needed it, as urgent and bitter as his unit needed the low-grade energon they survived on.
"Okay, then. You're hired. Trial period, anyway. We'll, er, talk about it more in a little while." Swerve's visor brightened, but Tarn couldn't look at him. "Jazz! Can you fill tank'Con in on job requirements?" The saboteur threw him a lazy salute, but Swerve hesitated a minute more before nodding decisively. "I'll be back in no time."
The minibot disappeared through a door on the far end of the bar counter. Blessed silence finally descended.
Silence and Jazz. Tarn considered religion a crime, yet he briefly considered praying for Primus to spare him this conversation. Jazz didn't even have to say anything to turn the relief of silence into a crushing, awkward weight. And to think the tank been convinced working under the former Autobot officer would be the worst humiliation possible. The job interview alone had turned into a test of his temper and suppression chip. The idea of enduring this while working packed sour, prickly rage around his spark.
At least he'd gotten the job. Tarn stared fixedly at his hands and stuffed acidic resentment into his empty fuel tanks to stew. He'd gotten the blasted job.
Somewhere outside, someone honked and shouted. It sounded like traffic was picking up as the work cycle wound down.
The sleek frame posed at the edge of his vision uncrossed and recrossed long legs, sighing to break the tense silence at last. "Tank'Con," Jazz said as if tasting the nickname. "That's…something new, mmhmm. Never thought I'd live t' see the day someone like you didn't tear someone like him a new one for disrespectin' you." The emphasis could have meant Decepticon, officer, or leader of the Justice Division. Maybe even just a large frametype, because what mech Tarn's size put up with a stupid nickname from a minibot?
A strangled, angry rev popped past the suppression chip's interference. Seething anger turned over his engine despite layers of lockdown, but Tarn laced his fingers together and kept his optics down. He would not offer threat.
Jazz sighed again, a short puffing exhale more exasperation than drama this time. "Don't let it get to you. He calls everybody by these things he just…pulls outta thin air." One hand waved as the Autobot shook his head. "I'll bring it up to him later - again - but just go on and remind him y' got a name. He's used to it. It don't stop him, but what the slag. He's the boss. Let him use his silly names; they make the customers laugh. And I'll send you and your whole unit straight to th' smelter if you try anything, Commandant."
The sudden, clear threat pierced Tarn's mounting anger in a cold shock made twice as chilling for how Jazz's friendly tone never changed. He jerked his head up, red optics round in surprise. They met the steady blue visor of an Autobot far more dangerous in this post-war world than any Decepticon could hope to be.
The traffic from outside sounded incredibly loud. A tuneless humming that could only be Swerve came from the open doorway, along with some miscellaneous clinks and clanks from whatever he was doing back there. Tarn's fans stalled. Air cycled in and out, shallow and slow. Tarn breathed quieter than the wind stirring, and his gaze locked against a knife-edged reminder of how easily he and his unit could be exposed.
"We clear?" Jazz asked, smiling. Smiling as if he couldn't completely destroy the Decepticon Justice Division.
Tarn looked away, dropping his optics to his hands again. Jazz's gaze stayed on him, coming to rest like a knife nestling under his chin, and that threat would be his choke-chain, blackmail hung around his neck for whenever the Autobot needed to twist it a little further, control him a bit more. He understood that. He made himself accept it.
"Yes," he said. "We're clear."
[* * * * *]
[ A/N: Second part for TwistyRocks! Thank you!]
[ A/N: Second part for TwistyRocks! Thank you!]
