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 two parts, just to see what happened. Thank you to Vintage-Mechanics for this part! 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. 3: Always Read the Fine Print
[* * * * *]
The stick burned.
Tarn watched it. He'd expected a lot of things walking into this place. Burning sticks had not been one of them.
It did explain the strange smoky scent in the air, and the hosts made money through the burning, somehow. That made no sense to him. It was just a stick. A red ember smoldered down its length in a steady crawl of consumed minerals and grey wisps of smoke.
He reached out to the decorative centerpiece it rested in, turning it to the left as if that would explain the point of setting a stick on fire. No such luck, however, and he looked down at the small groundframe sitting beside him on the couch. "How much is it worth?"
"Depends on how they're notched. This's one of mine. See the notches?" Jazz leaned in to re-adjust the centerpiece. His door brushed over tank treads and down Tarn's arm in a gesture too deliberate to be accidental. The curve of the couch in this cubby made for an intimate setting even before they leaned over the low table at their knees, and Tarn was suddenly aware of how close together they were.
He sat up straight in a hurry, flustered, and cleared his throat of an awkward knot of instinctive loathing and just as instinctive interest. "Yes, ah, of course. There are seven."
Smooth, Tarn. Pride of the Decepticons, right here, able to count to seven and everything. Fork over a medal.
"Eight, actually."
Someone just smelt him down and spare him this humiliation.
Jazz didn't smirk directly at him, but he knew the Autobot was laughing at him anyway. "You missed the one at the tip, I'm betting. See?" An unlit stick flipped out and waved in his face, and Tarn's optics crossed trying to focus on the tip. Yep, there was the notch. "That's the one y'get for just sitting down. Okay? Pay attention, I'll do a run-through."
The dangerous little mech popped up off the couch and took a few steps away before turning and sticking a hip out, arms crossed over his bumper. The dim lighting flattered his natural assets. Tarn squashed another inappropriate twinge of appreciation for a fine-looking groundframe. Jazz: saboteur, Autobot, and touchably shiny.
His attitude was all business at the moment, but the business in question sort of amplified his innate attractiveness. "Here's how it goes down. If the customer don't stop at the entry desk and pick a host from the schedule, he's gonna grab a seat instead. You go over, introduce yourself, and see if there's a spark of interest. Like so."
Hips swayed forward, leading a bold sashay into Tarn's personal space bubble, and Jazz bent to smile at him. "Hi there."
Tarn stopped himself from inching away from that bright smile. Fraggit, okay, yes. He got it. Customers were here for intimacy, physical or conversational. Of course a more-than-friendly approach was the norm. The back of Jazz's fingers smoothed down Tarn's upper arm as a high-performance motor purred at him, and Tarn was glad his mask covered his face. His expression had to be a picture of conflicting urges. Not so much 'fight or flee' as 'punch or pull closer.'
Armor crawling, he forced himself to stay still. The job required plate-to-plate contact. Standing this close, the thrum of engines vibrated through metal. It was a blatant sign of interest, bypassing coy flirting to indicate he was willing and available. It went against everything he wanted, but this was a service job for those most basic of services. It catered to customers on a…personal level. Getting paid each night depended on his ability to generate a spark of interest, be it sexual or intellectual. Whatever the customer wanted, Tarn would have to supply.
Call this a teaching experience, however queasy it made him feel. The energon Swerve had all but poured down his throat roiled in his tanks, but it wasn't going anywhere. He wasn't going anywhere. He was here to learn.
So he swallowed hard and took notes on technique. Jazz offered warm welcome on all fronts, body language open and easy, invitation written large across his playful smile. One relaxed hand had come up, the back of the fingers brushing up Tarn's arm before idly toying with the thick treads on his shoulder. Bending forward let the Jazz tilt his head to meet Tarn's optics, a sultry look that smoldered as hot as the stick burning on the table behind him. Doors tipped back at a jaunty angle that accented sleek black-and-white curves, stripes of red and blue playing hide and seek with the low lighting. The glimpses of color invited optics to follow as they ran over Jazz's hood. He looked like temptation personified, dangerous as only lethal weapons could be, and Tarn's throat intakes worked dryly as his optics finished their exploration and snapped back upward.
Too late. The seductive look had turned penetrating. Jazz had seen his optics wander and taken note of everywhere they'd lingered. That would likely be used against him at some point.
Tarn hadn't felt this conflicted about being turned on since the first time he heard a certain gladiator speak in Kaon. If this mech weren't, well, Jazz, he'd find the whole experience intensely erotic. An attractive blackmailer, a perfect friendly mask layered over deadly threat, and every combat protocol screaming that he was exposed, his defenses were down, get away before it was too late. He had to disengage target lock at the same time he denied an activation request from his interface hardware.
Whatever Jazz saw made his smile widen, but the training walk-through went on without a hitch. "Customer likes your look, you take a seat." The manipulative fragger melted onto the couch, cozying up. "And then one of you waves a waiter over. They light it, and ta-daa! You're on the clock. It's easy. Don't do it yourself," the black-and-white warned him, sternly wagging a finger but keeping the guileless smile as he curled around Tarn's arm, ruthlessly snuggling it. "It's like the stick itself: house sells 'em to us so we can't cheat. We all got the same timers running, that way. The house monitors when and who starts a stick to keep track of the bill, just like they track drink tabs. Just gotta kinda discreetly lift your hand like so," an easy recline back, one hand going up as if to signal the bar for another drink, "and one of the waiters'll hop to it. They're on the look-out for that anytime a host sits. You'll take your turn at it 'less you're real popular, so you'll pick up the trick of spotting a hand go up."
Jazz dropped his hand, wrapping it back around Tarn's arm. His entire front pressed along the tankformer, shoulder to wrist, one big hand held captive in his lap trying very hard not to feel up his thigh. Size or armor density made no difference against an attack like this. A score of pop-ups crowded Tarn's HUD, and he deleted them hurriedly. No on the weapons, definitely no on interface hardware activation, and yes, he knew exactly how many degrees his core temperature had risen, thank you very much!
Sitting stiffly upright, he permitted the small groundframe to wrap around his arm. Proximity alarms bleated warning, insisting imminent threat, but there were no enemies here. They were playing their parts, customer and host, and Jazz nestled in so close a weapon wouldn't be necessary if it came to that. Which it wouldn't. Tarn had no intention of stepping out of line. He refused to give Jazz cause - or excuse.
After an excruciatingly long period of clinging, Jazz finally relented. He sat up a bit and pointed to bring attention back to the stick burning in the centerpiece. "Here's where you start t' make money. Waiter comes over an' lights this, you automatically get that first notch as your host fee even if y'don't stay the whole time. It's good manners to stay, but sometimes the night's too busy or the client just loses interest. Things happen."
The first notch from the tip was only a thumb-length down. Tarn studied the burning stick, trying to estimate time as the ember ate down toward the next notch.
"Yeah, see it?" A flick of a wrist produced an unlit stick, and Jazz measured the space between each notch with his fingers. "Time's up on the first notch. Means the initial sitting fee's spent. Give or take a minute t' wrap up conversation and exit gracefully, or else your customer's gotta pay up the next time fee. Usually by the time y'hit the next notch, the customer's already made up his mind about purchasing. Keep in mind there're no fractions. More'n a couple minutes burn by, you get full price. All or nothin' for the fee. If you - you the customer, I mean - dismiss me now or I got another appointment, I still get th' fee for the second notch."
What a bizarre method of measuring time as money. "Seems overly complicated," Tarn said, neutral.
Jazz shrugged, the careless motion rubbing his bumper up and down the inside of Tarn's elbow. "Seems so, but Swerve was right. It's sorta hypnotic, watching money burn. I thought it'd be obnoxious when we first opened, but c'mon. What else people got to spend it on? More scrap for their flats? Some polish? Night out? After a while, it's down t' buying goods and services anyway. This's just another kind of night out. Entertainment crossed with personal service. You sit here watchin' your money burn, but you're sittin' next to a fantasy. That's what we are, y'know? Just - think of it like a theme park. You spend money on the rides, for as long as you wanna go. You've got your favorites, but you change it up sometimes to try 'em all out."
The mental image caused an odd thump in Tarn's fuel pump. He couldn't even look at Jazz, and his fans clicked as they tried to turn against lockdown.
"We're paid companions, and we're here to give our customers the best time possible." The words seemed pointed, aimed at Tarn in particular, and now Tarn really couldn't look at him. "They know it. We know it. Everybody here's buildin' an escape for whoever walks through the door. We make a different world in here. Ain't therapy, ain't drinkin' with friends at a bar, but after so long fighting..."
He trailed off. Tarn eyed him from the corner of his optic without turning his head. Abruptly somber, Jazz watched the stick burn down toward the third notch. His fingers tapped on Tarn's forearm. Tarn squinted as the suppression chip fought threat assessment, but the automatic twitch away made the small Autobot hold on tighter.
"Customers get exactly what they pay for here, no disguises. They're payin' for attention. They're payin' us to put up with 'em, to listen to 'em, to make 'em feel good. Mechs come here 'cause they want a night out without having to paint on a happy face for their friends, or 'cause they wanna be catered to by attractive, interesting people. To talk to somebody who ain't gonna gossip or judge." Jazz glanced up at the Decepticon. "There's a NonDisclosure Agreement in the employment contract, by the way. Y' have t' sign it t' get the job."
Tarn looked away, focusing on the bar and its ridiculous list of drink prices. "I'll sign it."
"Mmhm. Don't think Swerve won't sic a lawyer on you if you blab."
Delivered in a playful tone, it was an almost pleasant reminder not to forget his place. It twisted a verbal knife directly into Tarn's tender pride.
Vos would like Jazz's style. Subtle control had a peculiar kind of sadism to when applied to someone used to power. Such as, say, a former commandant.
"I don't think a lawyer will be necessary," Tarn said quietly. A lawyer wouldn't need to do more than turn up the Justice Division's false registry under assumed names to destroy them.
"Just a friendly warning."
Right. Friendly. Like a gun held to a hostage's head. "Of course."
He was no position to cause trouble. He'd keep his mouth shut, although the threat of a lawyer seemed unnecessary. He couldn't imagine he'd want to discuss work with anyone. Explaining this job to the rest of his unit sounded daunting enough.
Optics drifting back to the table and the burning stick in its centerpiece, he pretended he didn't feel warm plating shift against his arm, Jazz wriggling until he could rest his helm against tank treads. Tarn knew now why Soundwave kept in contact with this mech. He understood completely. As much faith as he had in Soundwave's underground network, he wouldn't bet on anyone evading Jazz if the saboteur went hunting. Post-war Cybertron hadn't been kind to Decepticons trying to avoid capture, and if the war had taught Tarn anything, it was that anyone could be humbled. Jazz probably had Soundwave eating out of the palm of his hand.
And here was Tarn, all but pleading for a handout as well.
Why, oh why, couldn't Jazz have been a Decepticon? A perfect little killer, tempting and dangerous and crossing his legs to trap Tarn's hand between white thighs -
Heat blossomed through Tarn's systems on the heels of shrieking alarm, and white noise blanketed his thoughts as the suppression chip viciously damped combat protocols.
Wholly unnerved, Tarn watched the stick burn as Jazz settled. The suppression chip smushed the urge to open fire, but he didn't dare move his hand. He wished it felt numb, but right now it was feeling rather more than he wanted. No wonder Swerve had commented on his deficient polish. From the feel of things, hosts buffed their plating daily.
Once Jazz was comfortable, the Autobot followed his gaze and picked up the training as though nothing had happened. "Each notch burned gets marked down by the house. Transaction's complete when you snip the end right above the next notch."
Tarn somehow stiffened further as Jazz sat forward, thighs sliding together around his hand. It was an informative experience.
Distracting! It was distracting!
One of the centerpieces' decorative pieces revealed itself to be the hilt of a low-power vibroknife. Tarn forced himself to watch Jazz pull it out. A deft cut, and the burning ember clicked off the tip of the stick.
Jazz flicked it to the floor and ground it out with the tip of his foot. "Like so. Your time goes on the customer's tab. Customer pays the house. End of the night, Swerve tallies everything and pays out to us: host fees, your cut for drinks, specialty snack trays, private rooms or performances your customers bought - remind me, we gotta decide what you charge per song - "
"I'm not going to sing."
"What, not even a private performance? What can you do, then? Can you dance? Play board games? Do tricks?" Jazz turned a wry smile up at the Decepticon when Tarn jerked away, offended. "Sit. Stay. Good Decepticon!"
His hand was free, but Tarn hid relief under offense. "I'm not a trained cyberhound!"
"Put th' brakes on, mech. That voice is your big thing; you know it, I know it. I got no idea what other talents you've got for sale."
His mouth snapped shut on a protest, a waterfall of hot embarrassment and cold indignation pouring down his back struts. Talents? Surely Jazz didn't mean a list of interfacing skills? That kind of price list was too crude to exist.
But if that was what sold, then it had to be put up on offer. Slagging Pit.
A knowing grin quirked the corner of Jazz's mouth. "Me, for instance. I do one stage performance per night, paid for by the house, but I got customers who'll pay for more by the song or by time on stage. I dance, too, with or without accompaniment." Half his visor flashed a wink. "Music, I mean. Or people. Heh. Sometimes I gotta turn down private room performances or y' won't see me on the floor the whole night." He stretched in a long, slow, luxurious arch over the back of the couch. The side of his arm stroked past Tarn's shoulder and treads, and wrist joints flexed in circles like the Autobot didn't have a care in the world. "It's a living."
Tarn gaped at him. White noise fizzed softly in his audios as he tried to take that in. Processing the words hurt his head. "I'm sure."
"So think 'bout singing, yeah? Thing is, performance fees are on charged top of regular host fees. The more I perform, the more I take home. Plus, get the two of us on a stage, we'll have t' sweep tips off the floor." When Tarn didn't speak up, Jazz shook his head to dismiss the topic for now. "Anyway, money. You remember how much we get for drinks?"
Could he forget? The drink list glowed in Tarn's mind with the light of overpriced luxury, promising easy money. He hoped. "A quarter of each drink sold."
"Right. That includes anything the customer buys for you, which's how you should be gettin' your drinks through the night." Jazz fell into a lecturing cadence at odds with the amusement in his visor. "You wanna turn a profit at this gig, customers should be buyin' anything you consume on the premise. But maybe not 'til you get your reserves built up. You got anything left?"
His reserves were nonexistent. His main tank held everything he had left, mere fumes before Swerve's unwanted generosity earlier had fed more in. Mortification stalled his engine. He, former Decepticon, feared warden and unit commander, had next to nothing left, be it pride, belongings, or fuel, and if Jazz pushed the question, Tarn would have no choice but to admit that fact out loud for the Autobot's sadistic pleasure.
Shame swelled his throat closed around a knot of what he refused to call fear. His tanks squeezed, fuel gurgling in a purge threat.
Underneath it all were the word he wouldn't say: Please. Don't do this.
Out of mercy or perhaps impatience, Jazz blew off the question. "Nevermind. Don't worry 'bout it. Swerve uses a decent midgrade for the house blends. I'll arrange somethin'." A charming smile flashed up at Tarn. "Employee discount. The house'll sell you energon outta the distillery until you get rolling. Buy as much as you want so long as you ain't resellin' it. I know what the going rate for fuel is on the street, so don't do that 'less you want your supply cut off cold. Might cut a couple other things off while I'm at it." For a split second, an assassin sat pretty on the couch full of sweetness, light, and sabotage. His charm had hard edges that sliced like a knife. "You don't wanna try playing me for a fool, Tarn."
Wide red optics looked down into a sinister blue visor, and Tarn floundered in horrible, humbling gratitude as he stared. Justifiable and expected threat aside, Jazz had just swept the floor out from under him via kindness. Manipulative kindness likely intended to sink Tarn deep in his debt and keep him under his wheels, but kindness nonetheless. Depending on how much of a discount Jazz arranged, buying fuel here to take back to his unit could be cheaper than anything they could find to buy down in the sublevels. Tarn had no doubt it would taste better. Compared to the grade of energon they currently consumed, whatever base fuel Swerve's distillery used would taste like condensed starlight.
Pride curdled in his throat, solid and sour. Tarn struggled to speak around it. Words of gratitude fell apart in his vox box. His throat closed, but he kept trying. He didn't want the slagging Autobot to withdraw the offer because of a perceived lack of gratitude. Stripped of his absolute hatred for relying on anyone, much less an Autobot, he appreciated the help. Truly, he did. He just didn't like it.
He managed a nod. It'd have to do.
Vents chuffed amusement, but Jazz let him off the hook by continuing Intro to Hosting 101. "Now, I'm not sayin' some of us can't turn a profit drunk, but don't let customers pressure you into drinkin' more or faster than you burn. Shouldn't be a problem for a mech your size, but I'm just sayin': getting fendered every night's a bad idea." Doors moved along the couch back in a shrug, sliding against tank treads. "Only one who gets away with that is Trailbreaker, and he's gotta broken fuel regulator as an excuse. Between that an' how he burns energy, we let him drink what he wants. Besides, he's kinda hilarious when he's overcharged. He changes his name and everything."
Jazz gave him a significant look, and Tarn made a mental note to never, ever get drunk enough to refer to himself by his previous names. Drinking had never been a vice of his, but he hadn't had a morphing addiction before he got hooked, either. Better safe than sorry.
"Soooo yeah. You get a quarter of the drinks, third of the snack trays, half the private room rentals. We've got five rooms upstairs 'bout this size," Jazz gestured around the cubby, "and two bigger ones. Small ones are pricey, but they're booked solid on our busy nights. You get a customer who wants privacy, tell him t' call ahead." Another shrug. "They're first-come, first-serve, otherwise. Bigger rooms generally rent out to groups of people for special occasions."
Mask or not, Tarn knew he looked as taken aback as he felt. His helm snapped back until his neck cables creaked. Groups of people? Mechs did that? It was an option? How did…how exactly did someone go about arranging a 'special occasion' like that? Did a bunch of mechs just get together after work and decide that tonight was the night to rent someone for a gangbang? Was that the sort of party the upper class had on a regular basis? Even as Senator Shockwave's student, he'd known a great deal of the rich noblemechs' opulent lifestyle remained hidden, but how had he been this ignorant?
So many questions, so few answers. Shock-wide optics darted around the room as Tarn's fuel pump stuttered. One or two mechs stood by the bar, employees or early customers, and he eyed them warily, thoughts running wild. Curious optics eyed him right back, and he whipped around on the couch to face the table, anxiety flushing through his lines like a burst of coolant hitting hot internal systems. His throat intakes worked in a nervous swallow.
It hit him suddenly that he would have to sell himself. Literally sell himself, pushing his 'services' as though he was an extra cable package tacked onto an infonet deal. Those mechs at the bar could be bought and sold like chattel, and soon he'd be right there beside them hoping someone wanted to pay money for him.
The tankformer wrestled his reaction down to subtle jitters. Jazz watched. A smile spread slow and satisfied beneath that laughing blue visor. "Rooms pay good, but it takes a lot more to get a private room than just a casual conversation, if y'know what I mean."
Vent slat crimped shut in anger and embarrassment, Tarn pushed a question out. "How are the rooms rented?"
"Wave a waiter down, he'll clear it with Swerve, and then he'll come back t' escort you upstairs." Jazz tipped far, far back, slouching into the couch like he couldn't be more relaxed. "Or do you mean how they're charged? Just like a performance: you're paid your host fee, and th' room fee's on top of that. Now, if you're givin' a private performance, that means you get paid a host fee, the room fee, and a performance fee. But you say you won't be singing, so you won't be gettin' performance fees."
"I won't?" Innocence spread over Jazz's face, but Tarn wasn't fooled in the least. His intakes were choking him, he swore they were, but the not knowing had him strung out. He had always been one for facing challenges head-on. This one was no different, no matter how squeamish he felt pushing the question. "What…exactly is included in a host's fee?"
The angelic smile morphed into an evil smirk. "Oh, y'know. The usual." Before Tarn could do more than clench his fists, temper roused, Jazz shrugged and sat forward to prop his elbows on his knees. One hand reached out to cup around the stick still stuck in the centerpiece. "You're a new host. No competition for your company yet, so your time's cheaper 'til we see there's demand. Give it a few weeks for word to get out, judge how you're doing, and we'll check price on supply. The point's to even out your time versus customers lookin' to buy it." Digging the tip of his thumb into a notch, he held it up to illustrate what he was saying. "Every notch is the same price: you, me, anyone. But the more notches per stick, the more money y'get for less time."
"I'm popular," he said shamelessly, "so the house and I agreed to up me t' eight notches: a quarter shanix per fifteen minutes. You'll start at two notches, but you're gonna have one whole stick in your first pack that's nothin' but five minute markers. That's what you're gonna light when you first sit down, not a regular stick." He moved his thumbtip down to show the five minute mark. "It's like, ahhhh…hmm. A sample. You're new, right? Our clientele are kinda on the richer side, but not all of 'em. Some of 'em spend a good chunk of their disposable income here 'cause they want a stress-free good time when they go out t' party. They're not gonna risk having you sit down if they gotta pay upfront for an unknown. Nobody knows you yet. This way, they'll get a free trial before they gotta shell out for your time."
That sounded horrible. A lot could happen in five minutes if those mechs wanted to 'sample' him.
However, Tarn's mind shied away from that line of thought, barely registering it before pushing it aside to deal with later. A more important detail had jumped out at him. He couldn't have heard that right. No, he had to have misheard.
He should ask just to check. Voice weak, he said, "I'm sorry, I don't believe I heard you correctly. How much is each notch worth?"
The Autobot didn't look at him, but his doors raised and lowered in a shrug. "A quarter shanix." Jazz's musical voice took on a strange overtone, an almost reassuring note, although he kept his visor on the stick he twirled between his fingers. "If a customer likes you and invites you t' stay past that five minute preview deal, you're gonna get paid a quanix per hour for your time. Plus drinks sold an' all that."
The club rustled to life, early employees setting up the stage and tidying tables, but they were quiet as of yet. Swerve talked loudly in the background, but he was a constant baseline Tarn had already learned how to tune out. Jazz ran silent the way one would expect of a former Special Operations agent. Evidently his engine purred only when he made an effort to be seductive.
The quiet rang. It vibrated through Tarn's head. His vision fitzed like he'd taken a blow, but it was shock. Complete, flabbergasted shock that stole the air from his vents and left his mouth working soundlessly behind his mask.
A quarter shanix per hour. He could earn three shanix in one shift. Four whole shanix if Swerve ran the nightclub by factory shifts instead of office shifts, sixteen hour workdays that nobody in the menial class could protest for fear of being fired. Complaining meant immediate termination. Mechs in the lower sublevels lined up for the privilege of replacing anyone who complained about hours, or pay, or anything, because the available jobs were miserable but unemployment was worse. Tarn knew that full well. He'd worked a job in the sublevels before the war, fumbling through his new life as an empurata, expelled from the Jhiaxian Academy and desperate to stay out of the Senate's sight. Until Shockwave recruited him, Damus had worked a dead-end, abusive job just like so many Decepticons did today.
Tarn's unit had filled out more than its fair share of applications for those jobs since the war ended. Tesarus and Helex were lucky to have hired on at the recycling plant near the edge of Iacon, out past where the many city layers flattened out. The commute took time, but the plant had an agreement with the government to hire Decepticons. As long as neither titan badmouthed their working conditions, they almost had job security. That was something nobody in the sublevels took for granted.
The two of them worked double shifts when there was enough work, and they earned a quarter shanix each as reward for their utter exhaustion afterward. A quanix per double shift was decent pay, in the sublevels. Kaon's former job doing electrical and communication equipment repairs had brought in a salary of two shanix per week. Tarn had been an excellent salesmech working at the call centers; he'd brought in another one to two shanix on good weeks. When the whole unit had been working, payday had made them feel rich. Guiltily so, compared to their neighbors.
The value of Cybertronian shanix had plummeted during the war as inflation skyrocketed, and pay hadn't caught up to prices in this post-war world. It might not ever as long as labor stayed cheap and readily available. Major corporations held the power, bribing Senators to protect big business over workers' rights. Which was, sadly, how it'd always been. The government had always backed the businesses, and Tarn didn't think well of the Orion Pax he'd once fought beside every time the brand new Prime failed to change the status quo.
While the hours had gotten worse, the pay hadn't been much better for menial workers before the war. Since fighting the system hadn't worked, mechs in the sublevels just put their heads down and slogged on.
Of course, theoretically, with the Functionalist Council out of power, any frametype could apply for any job, now. People could apply for the jobs they were qualified for instead of the jobs they were deemed fit for due to their builds. Tarn and Kaon had done exactly that, right up until they were fired. Vos was attempting it by studying for the teaching exam. Until he could take the exam, however, the D.J.D. had to make a living somehow.
If they'd been able to scrape together enough shanix to move after he and Kaon were fired, Tarn might have resettled his unit in Praxus or Helex. Those cities had work in construction, even though the jobs were back-breaking manual labor. It was paying work, which was more than half the unit could find in Iacon. They could have slowly amassed the teaching examination entrance fee for Vos. It would have also given the unit a stable employment history for their resumes.
Instead, they couldn't afford to move and were barely getting by, tanks perpetually on empty. Tesarus and Helex supported the entire unit. Tarn and Kaon were desperate for work. Tarn still guided them, but he sometimes thought the others stuck to him for lack of any other hope. Pathetic as it might be, the former Decepticon Justice Division clung to a flowchart plan for the future, because Tarn had always been an organized mech who operated best inside a bureaucracy. His systematic approach to hope was their dismal attempt to prove the war hadn't been fought for nothing.
If they could just pay Vos' entry into the teaching examination, if he earned a teaching certification, if he could prove that the Decepticon Cause had been more than a dream that'd wasted lives on the battlefield…if if if. It wouldn't bring Lord Megatron back. It wouldn't overturn the Senate. But it might make a difference, some day. A professor's salary could support the rest of the unit as they sought better work. Once they had salaries of their own, they could reach out to the other Decepticons struggling to get by on fuel dregs and minimum wages. They could support mechs who lost their factory jobs while applying and interviewing for better employment. With luck and a solid teaching contract, Vos would be probably earn a discount on education credits, too. Sending someone through the Academies would cost more than any one of them could make, but as a unit?
As a unit, they could make a difference. One mech at a time, they could help their fellow Cybertronians build toward a better life.
It wasn't overthrowing a corrupt government and installing their own, but Tarn refused to let Lord Megatron die in vain. This was the best plan he could think of with to work within the new Senate and Prime's revised laws. Maybe, just maybe, Optimus Prime's government wouldn't be quite as rotten as the previous Primes'. Tarn doubted that from what he'd seen so far, but loyalty to the Cause wouldn't allow him to give up.
All of which ran through Tarn's mind in fast forward as the ludicrous number Jazz threw out sank in. His fans buzzed, cooling whirring processors, and his optics widened until white slivers peeked around the red. Three shanix could buy half a tank of energon each for the unit and pay this week's rent. Government subsidized housing rent was lower, but it still had to be paid. He had almost been on his knees this morning begging the building superintendant for an extension on next week's rent. Helex had needed to take a day off so self-repair could fix a short in one of his heating coils, and a single missed shift had torn through the unit's budget like a bullet through tinfoil. They had nothing stashed away for emergencies anymore. There had been too many emergencies and not enough employment to replenish spent savings.
But now Tarn had the opportunity to earn three shanix a night! Three! His beginning pay would probably be lower than that, what with the whole hulking Decepticon warrior look. That might scare customers the first week, but there was a whole menu to sell to whatever customers did want to buy. And then…
Calculations flew fast and furious through his mind.
Three shanix would buy the unit energon and pay their rent for a week. If they bought the cheapest swill available, they could stretch it out enough to keep their tanks hovering above empty the whole week. Three more shanix the next night could pay down the late fee for last week's rent on top of buying Tesarus an appointment at an actual clinic to have his blades adjusted and sharpened. Any leftover money could book an appointment for Helex as well, taking care of the nagging maintenance problems that had been stacking up. By the third night, Tarn's pay could go toward rent for the next week, paying off their credit fees, and perhaps scheduling badly-needed maintenance sessions for the rest of them. Rinsing clogged filters could only do so much. It'd be bliss to buy new filters, and they'd be able to afford better energon that wouldn't need as much filtering.
The next payday, the whole unit would be able to start dropping money into savings for Vos' examination fee. Vos would be able to study uninterrupted. Kaon wouldn't have to spend his days searching for recyclable scrap on the streets to sell for a pittance or, worse, leveraging his empty optical sockets to beg for spare change up-level. Helex and Tesarus wouldn't have to take double shifts anymore.
Tarn stared into a suddenly brighter future, distant plans abruptly within reach, and his hands clenched into fists on his knees.
"Hey? Yo, Tarn. Tank'Con. You in there?"
"Yes," he said, soft and somewhat dazed. Resetting his vox box took the rough edge of hope off his voice, enough that he could pretend it wasn't obvious. "I…apologize for, ah, fading out like that. I hadn't realized how much this position paid, and I had to revise some plans. How - how long are the shifts?" There. Professional, cool, and calm. Also praying for the first time in his life that his job shifts went by industrial labor hours.
For three shanix a shift, he'd sell his body. Maybe not happily, but happiness could be faked. He'd be willing and even eager for the work. Really, what was the difference? Selling a desire to please wasn't new. That was customer service. Doing it via his interface hardware wasn't any more degrading than selling his body for manual labor or stifling his personality while working a call center. In the end, it was all work. He felt a vague shame about most of the jobs he'd held, honestly. Bodily violation wouldn't sting any worse than the humiliations he'd already suffered, and eating his pride night after night here paid better than vidcall sales.
A light touch on his arm brought him out of his thoughts. He offlined his optics and gathered his shredded composure. He owed Soundwave a monumental debt for the job tip, even if it placed him in Jazz's hands. He owed the Autobot as much as he owed Soundwave. He knew he wouldn't have been nearly so merciful in Jazz's place.
Jazz's visor held neutrality instead of mockery right now. Tarn made an effort to smile, visible or not, and laid his hand over the much smaller hand on his arm. It was the lamest attempt at a comforting pat in the history of Cybertron. His fingers stayed stiff, but he tried. He tried, and he didn't recoil from the squeeze to his forearm no matter how he wanted to. Wincing inside, he leaned a fraction into Jazz. He planned on being the best employee Swerve could hope for, and that required physical contact he Did Not Want. Time to practice.
"It's nothing to be concerned about," he said. In other words, no, the big bad Decepticon wasn't going to cause trouble. Look, he would even play nice.
"Ooookay." Jazz's expression remained quizzical, but the black-and-white shook his head. "We run a nightclub shift, so expect t' work 'bout two hours longer than professional office hours. A few hours longer if the customers are stayin' in." The tank sat up straighter, calculating that in terms of notches burnt, but Jazz took in his pleased reaction and frowned slightly. "Government office hours, I mean. Sublevel five and up."
Tarn gave him a blank look. What was the difference? Work hours depended on type of business and such, but Tarn was a long way from being Senator Shockwave's student. He didn't know the Senate's hours anymore.
The sublevels of Iacon were nearly separate worlds, the surface city far different than the lower areas. People tended to stick to the levels where they worked and lived. The Decepticons lived in the government-subsidized apartments deep in the sublevels, working jobs located even further down in the strata. Tarn's unit hadn't gone above sublevel nine since reporting for their Iaconian residence permits. Tarn had needed to check the transport lines for his transfer today, unsure of where precisely sublevel eight's entertainment district was. The up-levels were a mystery.
Jazz looked up at him. A brief flash of what might have been concern crossed his face, but it faded into an easy smile before Tarn could nail the emotion down. "Ten hour shifts, Tarn. Y'sign up for at least three nights a week, plus one weekend shift. You can pick up more if y'want, but it goes on the schedule the week before. We're gonna sit you down for a photo and profile t' put in the catalog, too, and that'll get you reservations soon as you start buildin' a customer base. How open are you t' off-shift appointments? House allows reservation booking if customers schedule ahead."
The words came through a static buzz in Tarn's audios. A ten hour shift? The Senate worked eight hour days?
That meant -
His fuel pump pushed ice through his tubes, chilling him from the inside out. Tarn stared down at the Autobot without seeing him as Cybertron fell to the side, throwing his mind against his helm and ripping the blinders off his optics. The old Senate had lived in obscene luxury compared to the rest of Cybertron's populace, but that had been before the war. He hadn't known - believe it or not, he'd had a scrap of hope that the Prime who had once been Orion Pax would remember the long, exhausting shifts even police officers had pulled back before the war.
To find out now that the upper levels worked half the hours for six times the pay of a sublevel worker extinguished that unspoken hope. The unfairness stuck in Tarn's filters. How entirely wrong it was ached in his spark. He couldn't even articulate in his mind how sick it made him that the Decepticons had fought and died for Lord Megatron's dream, for the Cause, and nothing had changed. The rich continued to rest on the backs of the oppressed. The sublevels slaved for the benefit of the upper strata. Tesarus was docked an entire shift's pay if he took half a shift off to get his gears aligned, and a slagging waiter got days off.
Waiter. Whore. Host. Whatever the job title was. It earned far more than any sublevel worker hoped to bring home from an honest job, and this club had nothing honest about it. It was an expensive fantasy patronized by mechs rolling in excess shanix stolen via the exploitation of cheap labor from the abused masses.
The suppression chip hissed and spat interference, white noise breaking up the vengeful fury triggering his combat protocols. He had waited too long to join the Decepticons. He'd believed Senator Shockwave's words for too long, followed the bright lies spouted by Orion Pax instead of opening his optics to the truth exposed by what had actually happened to Shockwave. That was what he should have believed. Shockwave had turned to a gladiator, turned away from his support of Orion Pax, and Tarn should have followed his example then and there. He had wasted so much time hesitating.
And Lord Megatron hadn't gone far enough. The Decepticons shouldn't have held back so much. Yes, there had been hope to change Cybertron without destroying it and rebuilding, but Orion Pax and the fragging neutrals who'd stood by as if they were above everything being fought for - they were an infection, a rotting disease. Tarn ached, he wished so dearly that Lord Megatron had simply wiped the planet clean. Only genocide of those who stood against the Cause could have cured Cybertron of this plague. Look what happened when something remained to regrow.
The Decepticons should have exterminated everyone in their path immediately. No time to choose sides or be persuaded by ideology. They should have just killed the planet and let history sort them out.
Tarn shut off his optics and concentrated on regulating his erratic ventilations. He'd take the job and use the money, but choking down the inherent unfairness hurt. A tar-burn glob of helpless rage oozed down his throat. The Decepticons had lost. He couldn't do anything to change how the world was but work for a potential better future.
"You wanna let my hand go?" Friendly as the question sounded, the sharp glare accompanying it could puncture steel, and Tarn was reminded all over again who this small mech really was.
His fingers' tight grip had dented Jazz's hand. Tarn released Jazz, but even he couldn't tell if it was because of the request or because the Autobot's touch repulsed him. Both were equally likely at this point. Without so much as a token attempt to disguise the move as a casual shift, he recoiled, pushing down the couch out of reach. He didn't want corruption smothering him anymore than it had to.
"Thanks," Jazz said, rubbing his knuckles. He peered up at the tankformer, visored gaze seeing too much, but Tarn pretended fierce interest in the table's centerpiece. "Huh. So, 'bout those shifts..?"
"I'll take whatever work is available," he grated out. "Doesn't matter what time of day or night. If there's work, I'll be here." Hating himself for perpetuating an economic and social system he opposed, but he'd be here. Appointments outside of regular business hours would help, and he'd take any that came up. A ten hour shift would give him two and a half shanix at most, probably less, but it depended on what he could push in refreshment sales.
The future darkened and drew further out of reach. The path to it looked pretty ugly.
Jazz snorted. "If you wanna show up every night and work two shifts a day on th' weekends, you just gotta get on the schedule the week before. We try t' keep the number of hosts 'round 'bout ten per shift, but we gotta double that on our busy nights. We're hirin' 'cause Swerve wants to boost us to fifteen a shift. We're gettin' slammed."
Tarn refused to look at him. Dipping his chin in a shallow nod, he asked, "Swerve pays the hosts at the end of the night?"
"Every night. No worries about payday, yeah?"
No scrambling to make it until payday, he meant. Tarn's head jerked to the side, optics shooting to the small mech. That was either extraordinarily insightful, or Jazz knew what it was like to live from week to week.
The Autobot was looking out at the rest of the club, however, leaning back in a casual slump across the couch. "House pays out in full at the end of every shift, but hosts pay a house fee by buyin' these," he wagged an unlit stick, "by the pack. The more notches you rate, the higher the cost. I'm at eight notches, and I pay 'bout ten shanix for a pack. You'll pay two for yours, I think."
Air sputtered as Tarn's fans hitched. "…I don't. That is, I." He didn't have two shanix. The Justice Division had an eighth of a shanix total right now, and it was in the possession of Kaon. He was on the lookout for a cheap fuel vendor during his scavenging today.
Behind the mask, his face twitched as panic stung his spark. Snarling hate of the business and its clientele aside, fear welled up the back of his throat at the idea of not getting this job. Shame poured molten lead into his tanks close behind. Frag his life.
His vox box crackled. He reset it and tried again. Words stuck in his throat. He needed this job, needed money to start this job, but the mechanisms of throat and mouth glued themselves together in a useless lump.
He had to get words out. Tarn had to admit the depths of his poverty to this smug glitch in the hopes that he could, if he wheedled, borrow some money.
Still looking at the club instead of the Decepticon paralyzed in agonized internal conflict beside him, Jazz waved a hand. "Don't worry 'bout your first pack. You get that one free."
Air burst out in a rush, and Tarn croaked, "You - !"
A perfectly innocent visor glanced up at him. "What?"
He'd done that on purpose, the bumper-humping, waste spill-licking, greaseblotch Autobot. "Nothing." His jaw worked. "Thank you." That wasn't bitter at all, no, of course not.
"Don't thank me. Thank Swerve. He waived your fee." A well-timed blink, and Jazz canted his head to the side to smile sweetly. The face of a saint beamed up at the Decepticon. "Guess he thought you prob'bly can't afford much of anything if y'can't fuel yourself properly."
Appalled horror swept the rage away and left Tarn gaping, embarrassment dripping hot down the inside of his chest. Because the only thing that could make begging an Autobot for a loan the better option was being such a pathetic failure that he had 'Charity Case' stamped in invisible glyphs across his mask.
He'd thought he would never be any more humiliated than he'd been the day Darkmount surrendered. He'd been wrong.
He owed Soundwave for the job tip, grudgingly owed Jazz for the chance to even apply for this job, and he resented the gratitude he felt toward them. What he felt for Swerve was a confused, sucking hole in his chest that he wanted to crawl into and drag in behind him, never to be seen or mentioned again. He owed the insufferable minibot.
The uncomfortable urge to squirm grew. He stuffed it down under his spark to fester. It'd have plenty of time to torment him later while he thanked Swerve. Which he would. Repeatedly, until he'd paid back his steadily mounting debt to the despicably generous chatterbox. His unit was simply too poor to do otherwise, slag his treads, so he'd accept being Swerve's charity case with humility and gratitude.
Tarn carefully unclenched his fists, making an effort to lace the fingers together in his lap. They shook with frustrated anger. His throat felt lacerated by the words he pushed out of it. "I appreciate his thoughtfulness."
"Yeah, he's a real nice guy when he's not talkin' around his foot." Jazz idly twirled the stick, putting an elbow over the couch back. "So, you got any questions for me, or should we get that picture an' profile done now? Night's young, but I think you'd be better off startin' tomorrow when you're," he gave Tarn a once-over, visor lingering on dull, unpolished armor, "prepared. You're welcome t' stick around the bar and watch how things work, though. Not expectin' a busy night. I'll spread the word for the others to introduce themselves, maybe give you a few tips on hosting."
Shame already had his shoulders hunched, so the pointed look at the state of his finish didn't do much. Tarn hesitated, wondering if there would ever be a less awkward time to bring this up. Probably not. "The other hosts will be…alright with me watching?" The main floor had little privacy, obviously, but the cubbies were partially screened off. The darkness within could hide many sins. The couches were wide and cozy, encouraging close contact and likely more than that.
"Sure." Jazz grinned. "Well, don't walk over and stare, but waiters walk everywhere checkin' the sticks. If you stay the whole night, maybe Swerve'll let you grab a tray and bus tables. It'll give you time t' memorize the layout, get a feel for the menu, an' see how we do things here. Just remember you're here to help the other hosts along when you got a tray. Waitstaff don't sell. When you're waitin' tables, you're there to be the invisible help. Slip in an' out. Don't interrupt, don't make optic contact - frag, don't even exist."
A bubble of hope gurgled in Tarn's tanks. Would he get paid if he worked tonight? Even if it was just spare change from cleaning tables, money was money.
…this was how low he had fallen.
He rubbed his thumbs together and cycled a long breath. He was procrastinating again, delaying the inevitable.
"I did want to ask what, ah. What exactly is…er, included in the host fee versus what's, uh, considered a performance." He hated his graceless verbal stumbling, but at least the words were out. It was a necessary query despite how even thinking about it made his cables kink.
If he had to sell himself, he might as well get full price for a premium frag. When he was fully fueled and didn't have to worry about reining in his need to transform frequently, there was this one trick he could do while interfacing that was incredibly complicated because he stalled his transformation sequence part way through by running several of his gears backward. He had no idea how to price such a thing.
The Autobot gave him a lopsided grin that turned his HUD into a wall of pop-ups. Danger, alert, target lock, weapons systems initialized!
"Eh. It varies from mech to mech, but hosting's just talking, flirting, making mechs feel good 'bout themselves. A listening audio an' no judging's the key. More than that, and it's performance material. Why? You reconsider singin'?"
One optic squinted as the suppression chip stomped his natural aggression, but Tarn still leaned away from the little groundframe. Caution was a code-deep installation. "No. I won't sing." Singing was too great a risk. His voice had been notorious once his outlier ability finally attached to it.
Interest bright in his visor, Jazz leaned forward as he retreated. "Oh? Then whatcha got for sale?"
He couldn't help but fidget. This was not something a genteel mech discussed. "I…ahem. I can transform mid-interface while still - "
Hands flung up to interrupt him, waving in vigorous protest. An exaggerated expression of shock rounded Jazz's mouth into an 'O'. "Noooo no no no, whoa, not happenin', not goin' there!"
Surprised, Tarn snapped his mouth shut and blinked. Jazz continued to sputter his engine and flail refusal, chanting variations of 'no,' 'don't wanna know that,' and 'nu-uh.' The tankformer watched in bewilderment.
He started to say something several times, but he was ignored until he managed to wedge a word in edgewise at last. "What? What did I say?" And why were his tanks sinking down to his feet? Was he supposed to be more subtle? How could they even broach the topic in a discreet manner?
Dread built into a towering unease poised to fall on his head.
"Augh, I did not need that mental image," Jazz muttered, one hand going to his head. "What in Primus' name gave you the idea we do that here?! We're hosts, not shareware! Nuts and bolts, mech, you wanna sell that, you arrange it outside th' club and never tell me 'bout it!" His voice dropped to a mumble, barely heard. "Know some mech's do it, 'cause why not, but come on. Don't need to think 'bout you doin'…that." He looked up and shuddered as if imagining it.
Meanwhile, Tarn stared. And stared. Everything done and said since he'd arrived at the club ran through his head in detailed hindsight that did nothing to contradict his assumptions or Jazz's claims. Not a single word, and wasn't that a mindfrag and a half?
Oh, Jazz was good. He was better than good. Vos would idolize this sadist.
"You…" Big hands curled into claws on powerful thighs, physically strong and completely worthless because Tarn had been defeated yet again. Out-maneuvered and left disgraced again. Made to admit his blind ignorance and unfounded assumptions out loud for Jazz to chuckle over. "You."
"Me, me," Jazz imitated him. "What about me?"
The massive Decepticon drew himself up, tensed to strut-shaking rage in futile hate, and glowered. "You did that on purpose!"
Jazz placed a hand on his chest and stood up to face him, all offended innocence and charm. "I don't know what you're talking 'bout."
Visor to optic, Decepticon to Autobot. A purple mask up against a game face, neither showing what lay underneath. Down in the cerulean depths of Jazz's visor, a deeply hidden glitter hinted that perhaps Tarn should be grateful Jazz hadn't gathered a crowd of spectators for this humiliation, or even some customers. The laughter could have been much louder and far more public. Although the D.J.D. had escaped official Autobot justice, the former Head of Autobots SpecOps might not be above some unofficial payback against Commandant Glitch. Jazz had a vicious streak backed by an evil sense of humor, and what was Tarn going to do about it?
"Of course you don't." Tarn gritted his teeth and seethed, because he couldn't do anything but surrender.
[* * * * *]
[ A/N: Thank you, Vintage-Mechanics. Until the curtains rises next time, m'dears.]
