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 it was rewritten to fit canon. If you haven't read the first four parts since the end of 2016, you should probably reread for the changes.
Rating: PG-13
Continuity: More Than Meets The Eye AU
Characters: Decepticon Justice Division, Jazz, Swerve, and everybody who joins.
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. Vintage-Mechanics got the third and fourth part. Hektorthegecko pushed me into the fifth part, thank you!
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. 5: Two's Company, Three's a Crowd
[* * * * *]
"Even if I believed you could pull shanix out thin air by midweek, I'm not playing favorites. There's no reason I should cover for you again. Who you think paid in to keep the accounts squared, the Prime? It's me. Me. And I'm not doing it again," his superintendant had sneered this morning, hours before Tarn headed to Off Track. "You can't pay by the end of the day, then tough luck. Pack your stuff. Give the eviction crew any trouble, and they'll kick your afts to the curb. Play nice, and maybe they'll let you take some things when they pitch you out the door."
The first three responses queued up in his vox box were inappropriate. Too rude, too confrontational, too cutting. Tarn swallowed their sharp edges and reached instead for a reasonable tone of voice. It came out coaxing, nearly pleading. "I have a job interview tonight. You know I won't have anything by tomorrow!" Every job he'd had, filling out forms and getting on the schedule took half the first week - if he got the job at all. "But I'll be employed again. I'll have a paycheck on payday, and I'll give you it all. Whatever I make the first pay period is yours."
Piggish greed lit Trip-Up's jaded optics. "Yeah? How much that going to be?"
"Ah. I am…uncertain of the pay as of yet." Not an encouraging start to negotiations. The D.J.D. had no savings left to offer as down payment for the thinly veiled bribe Trip-Up called a late fee.
Tarn's hesitation didn't inspire confidence. Suspicion filled Trip-Up's voice. "You don't know. Uh-huh. Where's the interview at?"
"Ah. Um." A superintendant's flat was twice the size of a regular apartment, but Tarn knew the nearest neighbors overheard anytime a renter knocked. Standing out in the hall wasn't an ideal place to announce an interview at Off Track. If the place was anything like he suspected, working there would open him up to propositions or worse based on nothing but rumor and speculation. He'd have to deal with the fallout eventually, but not right now. He didn't dare. Trip-Up was no better than he had to be, and Tarn knew how petty power could be abused.
What lengths would he go to protect his unit? How far was too far?
Greed cooled to disinterest while he hesitated. Trip-Up pushed off the doorway he'd been leaning against. "Alright, no. I'm not a bettin' mech. I broke my own rule the other week," his glare warned not to bring up how many weeks he'd taken an under-the-table kickback to bend the rules, "but enough's enough. You make rent, or you're out. But I'm a nice guy." He smirked. "I'll send the eviction notice to the boss at midnight. He usually doesn't sign official stuff after business hours, so that's your chance to get the job and some solid numbers by morning. Who knows? You might have more luck convincing him to give you an extension."
Rage choked Tarn. Static stuttered his thoughts as the suppression chip broke up his immediate reaction, and he yanked himself up short. No. No, he couldn't destroy this infuriating, frustrating excuse for a Cybertronian. The local Law Enforcer station would actually investigate if he murdered an Autobot. His unit couldn't afford the attention.
Plus, he needed any chance possible, even a backhanded mockery of one.
Fresh humiliation stung his already sore ego and thickened his voice. "Thank you. I appreciate it."
The door closed in his face. He preferred its blank surface to Trip-Up's laughter.
He pushed bruised pride aside as he turned to leave. Fear flooded in to replace it. He'd grown used to ignoring its bitter metallic taste since the end of the war, but it flavored his thoughts.
It wasn't a question anymore what he'd do to protect his unit. The question was what price they'd pay if he didn't.
Eviction would throw his mechs back out onto the street recharging wherever they could find shelter or paying high fees every night for a motel room. They could apply for another government-subsidized flat further down in the sublevels, but going back down would add an hour to Helex and Tesarus' commute, make it harder for Kaon to job-hunt, and cause Vos to miss another teaching module during the move. They'd be right back where they'd started, only poorer and more broken.
And harboring more doubts in their failed leaders, both Lord Megatron and Tarn himself. He didn't know if Kaon could take another disappointment, and he knew the blind mech didn't hold much faith in him anymore. Not since the Pet, and unemployment, and the depression of submitting job application after futile job application no one ever called back on.
Tarn headed toward the tower exit, suppressing the urge to transform. He couldn't afford to waste the energy.
He hadn't transformed for a long time. The D.J.D. hadn't had the money for more than the basics since moving up to sublevel 15. They'd sacrificed so much to move up-level. They'd leveraged Tarn's call center job, Kaon's electrician work, and the titans' recycling shifts to create an illusion of financial stability on their flat application, but the jobs hadn't lasted. Their pooled savings had run out.
The building superintendant should have reported their first late payment as a missed payment, but Trip-Up had given them a one-time extension when promised a 'late fee.' The bribe had made paying rent the next week more difficult, but the D.J.D. had managed it once. Then twice. And again, until today.
Tarn would wager Trip-Up refused another rent extension out of fear he might be caught taking a bribe. Supers were fired for less than that in this block. The block representative here followed the rules. Yes, the rules were rigged, but paying lip service to government regulations kept flagrant abuse of power to a minimum. A semi-decent block rep kept greedy conmechs like Trip-Up on a leash.
The D.J.D. had lived far enough down in the sublevels to know all about the pettiness and profiteering corrupt block reps and supers turned on residents. The standards might be low here, but at least they existed. Unlike the better-regulated up-level housing blocks, government housing below sublevel 15 consisted of several thousand occupants crammed into ramshackle towers stacked together inside a city block. They resembled miniature cities on the inside, each block rife with people running repair shops, recycling centers, convenience stores, and less savory sales out of their flats, operating on a cash-only basis, tax and license free until someone in charge got greedy and shut them down for not paying enough in bribes. Two days later, an identical lowkey shop would open on another floor in the tower next door, and desperate customers would slip in, unable to afford better products or healthcare outside the block, or even willing to pay more for untraceable goods and services.
It wasn't legal, but the Decepticons filling Iacon's lower sublevels couldn't risk calling the Enforcers for anything less than a murder. The cops didn't reliably show up unless there was money or media attention involved, anyway. Instead, the towers hired security wardens to police everything in-house, handling noise violations to armed robberies. In turn, the wardens often assembled a personal gang of thugs to help keep the peace and/or terrorize the residents into paying 'protection.' Whoever hired the wardens had his own private army and therefore, unsurprisingly, ruled the block by force as much as by position.
Like a fort commander, block representatives were political figures as much as residential managers, appointed by the city mayor to supervise the whole block. Individual tower superintendants and security wardens reported up the chain of command to the block rep. He held ultimate control over the people allowed to move in, and when they were evicted.
Anyone who'd spent time stationed in the garrison of an isolated outpost found the whole situation oddly familiar.
Rumor had it that Tarn's block rep had once been an Enforcer. A mechaforensics detective, some said, though Tarn had also heard he'd been parked behind a desk most of the time. Tarn knew he'd run the Autobot Security Services in Kaon during the height of the illegal gladiatorial matches, and he'd continued to fight against Lord Megatron's Cause under Zeta Prime. Decepticon Intelligence had lost track of him after Optimus Prime took up the Matrix. Whispered gossip said the mech had deserted at that point, attempting to flee off-planet as a neutral to avoid the war. While Tarn didn't usually believe unfounded rumor, the facts fit what he did know. Lingering resentment or contempt from the Autobots in power certainly did no one any favors on post-war Cybertron, and it explained why the mech hadn't returned to law enforcement.
Regardless of rumor, he wore the Autobot brand. It'd obviously been enough to earn him appointment to a position within Iacon's city structure. Supervising the government-subsidized housing block on sublevel 15 could be his stepping stone to greater political ambitions, or maybe a gateway to his former job. Either way, common sense had kept the D.J.D. very, very far away. Nothing good came of associating with past Autobots and current political hopefuls.
Especially one who had once met Tarn. Tarn been Damus, then, an empurata victim going by the name Glitch, but still. Tarn remembered him as a stickler for details, and, later, a prominent Autobot officer associated with the Primes. Best to avoid him altogether.
By the end of the night, Tarn was out of other options. Trip-Up had sent in the eviction form at midnight. Desperate times called for desperate measures.
Personal wireless connections were expensive, so Tarn used the free communications network access at the public transit station. It was so early in the morning it still qualified as night, but he could leave a message on the block rep's voicemail. Tarn hoped the mech's secretary checked for voice messages before the boss came in for the day. He was out of luck if resident calls were automatically screened out.
The comline rang. Tarn reset his vox box to lower it to his calmest, most persuasive pitch, a pitch that said without words that he knew what he was doing, he was a trustworthy, dependable mech, and he had everything under control. It had served him well in the Grindcore soothing prisoners as he shut them into the smelter, and equally well on cranky customers at the call center. He hoped it worked now.
A sharp *ping!* signaled voicemail picking up, and the flat, mechanical voice of an automated system said, "This is Prowl."
Just a meeting. If he could get his block rep into a meeting, Tarn was certain he could persuade him to not sign the eviction. His message had to be perfect. Tone, wording, and delivery had to come together into a message that conveyed sincerity without delivering all the information upfront. Tarn knew how to draw people in. Give the highlights, significant but unsatisfying tidbits that tickled curiosity by hinting at the reward of more important, more interesting details. Layer the meeting with overtones of a big reveal. Confiding in people made them feel important and part of what was happening. Once they were invested, they belonged to him.
It sure was taking a long time to reach the beep. Voicemail normally had a beep to indicate the message could be left, right? He could hear the faint static common to public access networks, but no beep. He waited, becoming more uneasy as the silence stretched out. How odd.
Oh. Oh no.
Dread iced the bottom of his tanks. No automated voice telling him to leave a message. No beep. Just a curt answer, like a busy, important mech answering his comlink in the extremely early hours of the morning.
Feeling suddenly small, Tarn ventured, "Hello?"
"Prank calling is a prosecutable offense, with a fine of up to forty shanix," Prowl said in that same flat voice. Tarn's horrified guess had been correct, and he was going to be responsible for his unit's eviction.
No time for fancy words or smooth delivery; the apology came out so hasty it stumbled over itself. "My apologies, I meant, I didn't, it wasn't my intention to, ah, your pardon. Excuse me a moment." Tarn cut his microphone and forced a full in-vent, pulling air in against the frantic whir of his fans. Flaming hot shame chased the ice through his lines in a dizzying rush, and it put him completely off-balance. He had to collect himself. Retreat and regroup, the defensive tactics of social warfare.
He could salvage this. Tonight he'd faced off against Jazz, survived Swerve's chatter, fenced words with Ligier, and still managed to get a job. As a host in the bastard nightclub spawn of a brothel and Autobot Special Operations, which was nothing to be proud of, but a conversation with his block rep didn't compare to the night he'd had so far.
Besides, Prowl hadn't hung up. That had to be a good sign.
Tarn didn't remember shutting off his optics, but he had to blink the shutters open as he exhaled. Squaring his shoulders, he turned the mic back on. "I'm truly sorry for that. I…" Admitting his idiocy out loud roasted his pride, but he needed to explain. "I assumed you would not be in your office as of yet and was waiting to leave a message. I didn't mean to seem rude. I assure you that I'm no prank caller, although I understand why you might think so. That was incredibly foolish of me." There, a bit of self-effacement. It should trigger a polite assurance of forgiveness, and they could restart the conversation as if Tarn hadn't screwed up.
For a long moment, he didn't think it worked. Static and silence filled the open comline. An overheat warning popped up in Tarn's HUD.
Armor scraped as Prowl shifted on the other end of the comline. "Fine."
Tarn blinked. That wasn't the response he'd expected.
"I assume you called me for a reason."
Well, it wasn't the most gracious of openings, but he'd take what he could get. "Uh, yes. Yes." He shook himself, kicking his stalled fans back online. Showtime.
After blurting that mess of an apology in his natural voice, the deep pitch he'd intended to use seemed ridiculous. Tarn settled for earnest honesty. "This is Tarn from Tower 4, Flat 113. I apologize for the hour, but my superintendant, Trip-Up, told me he would forward an eviction request to you based on nonpayment of rent. I want you to know that this was not an intentional violation of our rental contract. We did not attempt to dodge paying rent. There was simply an emergency that limited our finances this week, and we were in contact with Trip-Up as soon as we knew we'd be late. We're currently between paydays - but we will be able to pay by midweek, and we won't be late again. Three of us are employed. In fact, I'm calling to tell you I officially have the job I interviewed for tonight, and I'd like to meet with you to discuss a payment schedule for this week based on the nightly pay of my new position."
Now, the proper response to that teaser would be to ask what the job was and pay rate.
"If rent payment is late, you've broken the rental contract and are subject to eviction the following day. There are no exceptions."
Frag. Right. How had Tarn forgotten that Prowl wasn't just detail-oriented, he was also a rule-monger? "Surely other renters have had adjusted payment schedules! We want to pay the full amount, we just need until payday." Three days from now, but he could pay off a fraction of the debt each night. It'd show commitment.
A trace of emotion entered Prowl's voice. Unfortunately, it was impatience. "There are no exceptions made in my block. I don't care what rent collection was like on, hm," Tarn could almost hear him look up the D.J.D.'s flat application, "sublevels 19 and 23. You signed the contract for this block, and there is no excuse to have not read it before signing. Rent payments are to be made on time and in full." The impatience disappeared back into detachment. "Perhaps you should negotiate for a monthly schedule in your next contract. It will give you more paydays within the rental period."
That hit a tender spot. A monthly schedule cost less than paying rent weekly, but it required a larger deposit up front. A deposit week-to-week renters couldn't save up for due to paying higher rent.
Frustration tensed Tarn's treads as his engine growled. He steadied his voice and said, "We were unable to afford the deposit at the time we moved in."
"It's how the contracts are set up," Prowl agreed. Dispassionate though he sounded, Tarn could hear the unspoken, 'The inherent unfairness is not my problem.' "It serves a purpose. Weekly rent schedules minimize rent revenue loss by clearing flats in a timely manner." 'Of people who can no longer meet the deadline. Like you.'
Tarn remembered Prowl being a lot less callous. Justice was in the optics of the ones making the rules, not the powerless masses ruled by them, but Prowl no longer seemed to care so long as it served his purposes. It didn't matter to him that Tarn would be able to pay, only that he currently didn't have the money. The rules didn't allow for pity, and they didn't bend.
It made a strict, black-and-white kind of sense, but it didn't allow for the slightest mercy. Tarn never thought he'd miss corruption, but at least Trip-Up's greed had been a crack in law and order. Prowl didn't had that flaw. Tarn didn't need to meet with him to tell asking for an extension in person would be a waste of time.
Arguing would do nothing but degrade him. "I see. A meeting would serve no purpose, then. I apologize for disturbing you."
Prowl made a vague affirming noise, a sort of hum, and said, "I suggest you spend the rest of your morning preparing to move. The eviction crew will be there by noon." With that, he hung up.
At this hour of the morning, few people were at the transit station. All of them turned to stare at him the second Prowl was off the line. Tarn had picked a secluded corner to call from, but turning further into it didn't hide his fury. Gears screamed harsh resistance against lockdown. The unique whine of a strained T-cog shrilled even higher. His fists clenched on the bag of energon he carried, clutching it like talisman against temptation.
One transformation, a quick switch to his tankmode and back, and sweet satisfaction would kill the itch. Just once.
No. It was a lie. He knew it wasn't true. Transforming gave him temporary satisfaction, a giddy feel-good rush of a high that felt good for ten seconds and wouldn't change Prowl's mind. 'Just one time' would lead to another surrender, easier because scratching the junkie itch deluded him into believing it solved his problems, but it didn't. Succumbing made addiction worse, he knew that.
His treads twitched, and metal clicked as his armor shifted in the first stages of transformation. He shut off his optics and forced it into reverse. Vos had crammed scientific studies into his thick helm until Tarn internalized the results. If the rest of the D.J.D. had to stage another intervention for his morphing addiction, he'd spontaneously combust out of sheer shame. Or kill someone. He didn't know which, but either way he never wanted to sit through it again.
The instinctive twitch to transform took four minutes to stop. He stood with his head down for a minute longer to make certain he had it tamped down. When he opened his vents again, the slats rasped as though they'd rusted shut. His fans turned reluctantly, pinpricks of activation as he let go of lockdown one program at a time. The cool air felt almost painful.
He hated losing control.
No, scratch that. He hated not being in control.
So much for rising up. It was all he could do these days to stay on his feet. Some Decepticon he was.
Responsibility prodded him onward. Tarn sighed and dialed another communication frequency. He didn't know if anyone had waited up by the tower lobby's free network connection after it became clear he wasn't coming back last night, but he could still leave a message.
Kaon picked up immediately. "Tarn! Tesarus got a third shift for halfpay and we can have it here by shift-end - "
"The eviction crew will be there by noon," Tarn interrupted him. The night settled on his shoulders out of nowhere. Weary depression made its own gravity dragging down his spark. "Trip-Up wouldn't give us another extension, and our block rep's a fragging coldsparked drone. Use the money to rent a trailer to load our things onto." A week guarding a trailer beat having to buy basic hab suite furniture all over again. He didn't need to transform to pull it to the nearest public library, and he and Kaon could recharge on or under it until close. As long as Vos was actually inside studying, the Enforcers wouldn't roust them for loitering.
"Oh." Kaon deflated. The eager hope left his voice, and his disappointment punched Tarn straight in the chest.
Tarn winced as if he could curl up around his failure, make it and himself disappear, offer something, anything to stop the inevitable.
The best he could do was change the subject. "How did Tesarus…three shifts in a row's illegal." The recycling center didn't work its employees to death.
"One of the other grinders has to pick someone up at the spaceport, so he's paying Tesarus cash to clock in as him," Kaon said dully.
Fear skipped Tarn's fuel pump. "They'll fire him if they catch him doing that!" Impersonating another employee counted as falsifying records!
"It's an emergency. It was," Kaon corrected himself, and Tarn flinched, "an emergency. I guess it doesn't matter now."
"It matters," Tarn said. It was supposed to be assurance, but he sounded as helpless as he felt.
He'd done everything he could, done everything right, but it still wasn't enough. He'd failed Kaon. He'd failed the whole unit, but the sullen resentment leaching into Kaon's voice hurt the most. Everything he said sounded like an accusation to Tarn's guilt-ridden audios.
"Did you get the job?"
Another early commuter walked onto the transit platform. Tarn saw him move out of the corner of his optic and turned his face toward the wall. Right now, he needed even that poor privacy. "I…yes. I did. And it's paid by the night, starting tonight. Depending on how much I make, we might be able to start applying for a flat before the recycling center's payday. I'll take as many nights as they'll let me." His knuckles creaked as he tightened his grip on the bag of energon, but he tried to lighten his tone to something less defeated. "We don't have to worry about fuel today. My employer paid me in energon for last night, and he's," his tanks twisted, "generous. It's good quality and cheaper than what we've been buying."
"That's nice. I guess."
Where was a hole to crawl into when he needed it? "Kaon…"
Kaon reset his vox box to cut him off. "Better than nothing, anyway. What's the job?"
Tarn freed one hand to press against the wall as his spark ached, guilt compressing it into a solid lump in his chest. This. This was why he'd have done anything Swerve or Trip-Up or Jazz wanted. Forget an officer's duty of care; the personal responsibility for failure weighed as much as the moon. His unit depended on him how he'd depended on Lord Megatron, and he'd failed. The crushing letdown stole his breath. If Kaon felt this way about him, if Vos looked at him with nothing but disappointment, if Helex and Tesarus gave him an exhausted glance in passing because they'd worked their struts to the breaking point for a plan that fell through, then what should Tarn feel about -
He couldn't think about it. He wouldn't be able to take it if he followed that thought to the end.
"Waitstaff," he murmured, optics off and expression pained behind his mask. "I'll be working in a bar, of sorts. More of a night club. As waitstaff. I'm...expected to talk with the customers. Entertain them. Encourage them to drink more."
Kaon was quiet for a moment. "Huh. At least you'll be safe at night."
Tarn shot straight and stiff, optics popped wide in shocked anger so violent he'd have killed Kaon if the mech had been standing in front of him. There was something under the burn he didn't dare think about too closely, but outright electrocution would have hurt less. "You dare?! Is that why you think I went through this? My safety?!" Every commuter on the platform scattered as his engine roared, the snarl of an assault tank losing his temper bringing out survival instinct honed on battlefields across Cybertron.
Self-preservation still trumped depression. "I didn't mean it that way!" Kaon yelped. "I meant - I meant you'll be safe at night, but that's a good thing, sir! Tarn, really, it's good! It's one less person to stand watch, but it's one less to stand watch over, and I only meant that the rest of us won't have to worry about you when you're at work. Listen, that's all I meant!"
"Is it?" Tarn started to say something snide about a lack of gratitude, but he snapped his mouth shut. Only a guilt-tripping cogsucker would say such things. His burnt, damaged pride refused to beg for acknowledgement. He was doing what he could because it was his duty, not because he wanted praise. He needed respect, not empty flattery.
How unrealistic. Why should his unit respect him when he didn't respect himself?
His engine ground unhealthily, sticking between gears as it downshifted to neutral. There was one more thing he could try. Why hadn't he..? Tarn shut off his optics and slumped. No, he knew why. He didn't want to do it, but it was too late for that.
"Nevermind, Kaon. Send Vos to pick up Tesarus' pay at shift-end. Pack everything you can, and rent a trailer."
Kaon hesitated on the other end of the comline. This wasn't the time to question his commander's orders, but the Justice Division had been more than a unit even before the war ended. "Where will you be?"
Tarn heard his concern and assumed Kaon needed him to pull the trailer. Being of some use to his unit was cold comfort. "I have to make a call. I'll be back as soon as I can."
"But…right. Yessir."
He stepped out of the corner at last, deliberately avoiding the curious, fearful stares from the other commuters. They had clustered at the far end of the platform like prey spotting a predator. A Decepticon his size raising his voice in public this far up in the sublevels probably scared normal civilians into calling for Enforcers instead of escalating to a mob. Good thing it was so early, or the crowd would be bigger and more likely to respond with force. He tucked himself down on a bench on the far end of the platform to make them feel safer.
Then he made the call.
He didn't have the private number he needed, but the club had a hotline for reservations and employees. It picked up after two rings. A positively sultry voice purred, "Thank you for calling Off Track, Iacon's premier host club. How may I help you?"
As far as distractions went, being propositioned via a greeting worked fairly well. He could learn a thing or two on how to use a voice from this mech. "I. This is Tarn?" Hopefully the other employees knew who he was by now. "I need to talk to Jazz if he's still there."
The sensual purr vanished into a normal voice, albeit one professionally trained. "Tarn! The 'Con, right? Hello." The guy seemed friendly, but a voice like his didn't say anything he didn't intend it to. Tarn didn't trust that friendliness one bit. "Yeah, he's still hanging out. He's helping us pry Trailbreaker off the ceiling."
He wasn't going to ask. Except, "How - "
"Magnawheels. I'll go get Jazz. Please hold."
The hold music wasn't obnoxious, but Tarn barely heard it through his thoughts. Trailbreaker was proof that Primus didn't exist. Any creationist claiming intelligent design had to explain to Tarn why that engex-guzzling idiot had magnetized wheels, and he couldn't see that happening. What had happened to the talented outlier Senator Shockwave had taken into the Academy before the war? He'd distinguished himself fighting against the Decepticons, Tarn knew, but now he evidently spent his nights drinking heavily until he crashed. He needed help.
It was strange the Autobots treated their veterans no kinder than they treated Decepticons.
"Are you alright?"
Tarn's head whipped around. "Excuse me?"
The slender orange mech stepped back when abruptly confronted by a large purple Decepticon emblem-mask, but he otherwise stood his ground. "No, excuse me. I'm the one who should apologize. I didn't mean to startle you."
Tarn didn't quite know how to respond to the absurdity of such an obvious noncombatant apologizing for 'startling' a hulking warframe, but he'd distracted himself with an inane train of thought enough to be surprised. He could see why he seemed jittery. Add to that his behavior during the previous two calls, and perhaps it was understandable that a random - his optics flicked to the mech's chest - Autobot, of course it'd be an Autobot, would be concerned. Although he did look vaguely familiar, somehow. Should Tarn know him?
The mech kept looking at him, waiting for a response. When Tarn didn't say anything, he repeated himself. "Are you alright?"
Alright?
Everything that had gone wrong in the last week alone flew through Tarn's mind in a parade of frustration, disappointment, and humiliation. Worry for Tesarus endlessly circled his mind. Guilt and frustration riddled his brain module like an advanced neurological disease. Helpless anger hung in a haze over the entire disorganized mess. He'd lost track of the difference between the suppression chip's static and his own deteriorating self-discipline.
He'd failed his unit. He'd failed the Decepticon Cause. He'd failed his Lord.
His Lord had failed him.
And the hold music played on.
"I'm fine," he said at last. Good manners dictated a polite dismissal, as tempting as it was to shout at the meddling busybody to frag off. "Thank you for your concern, but I'm in the middle of a call right now."
"Pardon my rudeness, I didn't mean to interrupt. I'll leave you be." Round spectacles lingered on him, but the mech could take a hint. Nodding his head in an abbreviated, old-fashioned bow, he walked away down the platform.
Tarn watched him go. The other commuters watched him, too, and they relaxed, gradually wandering out of the tight group they'd bunched into. The scary Decepticon in their midst hadn't snapped and killed the harmless civvie. They were safe.
He turned his helm away, hating the flash of gratitude he felt. It took courage to disarm a potentially dangerous situation, but compassion to risk that danger in order to help someone.
"Y'ello?" drawled across the forgotten comline, and Tarn jumped for the second time in two minutes.
"Jazz?"
"Speakin'. Blaster said y'needed a word?" Jazz's accent had thickened since Tarn had left, slowing to a lazy, casual slur.
It didn't put Tarn at ease. He took a deep breath and sternly shoved his tattered pride aside. "I need a favor." Oh, it hurt to say that.
Not as much as Jazz's chuckle. "Suuuuuure y'do. Already? That was fast."
This was exactly what he'd expected, calling this mech, and hot embarrassment swept him helm to feet. Tarn accepted it as his due and braced for worse. "Please, Jazz. I need you to talk to my block representative. Rent was due yesterday, and he won't grant an extension. We - I'll be evicted at noon." He paused, but Jazz didn't comment. "I only need three days to make rent." He thought of Tesarus working through the night shift. "Two days. Two days, and we - I can make rent. We're," he gritted his teeth and corrected himself again, "I'm willing to pay a late fee. Whatever he feels necessary as payment for an extension. He just won't listen to me."
"T'you," Jazz repeated, catching the significance. "Y'think he'll listen t' little ol' me?"
"You're my manager," for lack of a better job title, "and…you were an Autobot officer," Tarn said carefully. Tactfully. He wasn't going to say 'You're the Head of Autobot SpecOps' out loud, but they both knew what he meant. He wasn't above using his employer to manipulate Prowl. "He may trust your word where he won't take mine."
"Heh. I ain't that shiny." Air whooshed over the line as Jazz puffed a sigh. "But I get what y'mean. Dunno what it'll do, but I s'pose I can try. Who's your block rep?"
So Jazz didn't know every detail of his life? That was kind of reassuring.
Tarn told him.
The other end of the line went very quiet.
When Jazz spoke, the mellow accent evaporated. "Wait, hold up. Prowl of Petrex is your block rep." It wasn't a question. "That wasn't a question." Well, that explained it. "I'm just repeating it because what the frag, mech? Did that - ohhhh, he didn't." Jazz hissed like an offended felinoid as he came to some conclusion, and a chill rattled Tarn's cannons. He didn't think the saboteur was talking about Prowl anymore. "He did. He knows where you live. He set this up. That manipulative grease smear. What's he plotting? He trying to set us against each other?" Jazz demanded, iron hard and menacing.
The demand all but shook an answer out of Tarn. "I-I don't know. I didn't know you knew each other!" Decepticon Intelligence files on Jazz had been full of conflicting mishmashed entries with a history of hidden hyperlinks seeded with viruses. He didn't remember anything referring to Prowl in them!
"The frag you say! Whatever. I'll find out. Nobody keeps secrets from me."
Tarn's fuel pump dropped to his ankles and started hammering. Threat assessment and target acquisition both activated, confused signals bright in his HUD as the suppression chip filled his head with white noise.
Jazz didn't pause to elaborate on how exactly he'd get his answers, too busy fuming. "I know who's behind this. Swear to Warrior's Gate, I'm gonna rip his dock door right off if that's what it takes to get a straight answer outta him. Slagging Pit do I have some plug-huggin' calls to make today."
Red optics widened. He needed to warn Soundwave what a slagstorm was headed his way.
"Don't think I won't know if you warn him," Jazz said as if he could read minds. Decepticon loyalty slammed up against new debts owed, and Tarn froze like a frightened petrorabbit. "You worry 'bout you, and I'll handle everything else." Jazz mumbled something low and peeved, then tsked. "Slag, it had to be Prowl, didn't it? I got no clue if calling's gonna help you out. Prowl don't tolerate frag-all when it comes to breaking rules, and he's always got his own plans in the works." He fell silent for a moment. "This's all gonna depend on how much bin-head told him. He hates being left outta the loop."
Tarn hated being a pawn in their game. Soundwave had given him the job tip for his own reasons, it seemed, and set him up to be caught between these two. The more Tarn thought about it, the less obliged he felt to warn him Jazz was on the hunt.
Jazz made an exasperated razzing sound for no discernible reason. "He's gonna want to know why you got me on your side. This's gonna take some fast talking. Mmm. Hmm? Mm. Hmph. Think I can - eh, maybe. Worth a try. I might owe you one for this, tank'Con."
The grudging admission should have been a relief, one less debt on the pile, but the Autobot's lack of confidence filled Tarn with dread. "Just stop the eviction. Please."
"I'll try. Head to Prowl's office. All else fails and he turns you away, there's always the alley out back here. Trailbreaker swears by it."
He winced at the idea of his unit recharging in the alley. They'd see where he worked, now. Worse, he might end up recharging beside Trailbreaker, and Tarn honestly thought he'd rather die. "Ah…I don't believe it wise to take recommendations on sleeping accommodations from a mech I last saw so fendered he propositioned a wall." And apparently went on to magnetize himself to the ceiling.
Jazz laughed. "Hey, don't knock the wall. It's supported 'Breaker through some real slag nights."
On the one hand, an amused Jazz likely meant good results. On the other hand, Tarn didn't enjoy jokes at his expense. He especially didn't enjoy jokes with the wellbeing of his unit on the line.
Embarrassed anger balanced against his complete lack of other options. It was a feeling he should probably get used to. "I would prefer not to find out how comfortable the alley is," he said stiffly.
"That's the plan." The laughter stopped. Suddenly serious, Jazz said, "Look, I didn't say it'd be dignified, but it's there, and the bouncers do rounds at night to keep anyone from rolling customers. I ain't saying you move in permanently, but it's better than the homeless shelters down-level," he said as though he knew what they were like.
Unpleasant memories surfaced, and Tarn shuddered. Sleeping in mixed company didn't seem so terrible now that he thought about it.
He shook away the past and determinedly focused on something else. "How do you know Prowl?" Maybe he could use the information if he made it as far as a meeting.
Jazz snickered. It wasn't a nice sound. "How do I know him? Him? What, you don't know?"
"Would I be asking if I did?" Ignorance left a sour taste in his mouth.
Jazz just snickered again. "We worked together during the war, right up until he took off into the sunset. It's too bad he did, 'cause he was this close, this close," Tarn could picture him pinching his fingers together, "to taking over my job and bein' the boss."
The sour taste became pure, metallic fear that flooded every corner of Tarn's mouth. A faint, distressed whine came from deep in his engine.
"And now he's your block rep. Mech, that's almost enough to make me feel sorry for you."
[* * * * *]
[ A/N: Thank you, Hektorthegecko. Thanks to Lizbettywrites as well for reading through and giving me feedback. Until the curtains rises next time, m'dears.]
