Trinkets 4/?
Title: Trinkets 4/?
By: gilded_orchid
Rating: PG
Universe: G1/Alignment-verse AU
Characters: Jazz, Mirage, Glyph (not an OC), Tracks
Content: Pre-war AU, The prompt involved with this is gold
Words: 3,438
Inspiration: One song, ONE SONG spawned the bunny that attacked me and birthed this monstrosity of a series. Here's the link, so that I might not suffer alone. ^_~ Click here and despair.
A/N: I am so, so sorry! While I was out of town earlier this month, some flagrant moron of a drunk wasted a pint of beer all over my laptop and completely fried it, so even though I had everything prepped, I was not able to actually type it up and post because of the whole 'no computer now' thing. Now that I've gotten my replacement, I'm typing like a fiend and getting my last prompts posted. Once I do that, I'll definitely be going back to answer the replies to my other entries--I haven't forgotten ya'll! I should have all of my other prompts up and ready to go by late tonight/tomorrow-ish. Sorry again for the heinous delays with this. =__=
There were many ways Prowl had anticipated things spiraling out of control-he hadn’t wasted his time on it going anything remotely approaching right because this was Smokescreen, and he was dealing with a Protihexan, and anything relating to right had long since stopped being part of his equations when dealing with either one. Still, he hadn’t anticipated things being quite this awful.
He’d braced himself for a possibly hysterical mech that was on the verge of a breakdown, depending on how fast news traveled about his dismissal. Smokescreen he’d expected to be entirely useless, either more concerned about his next conquest, or still lost in the post-overload haze.
Instead, he’d barged into the room Smokescreen had been granted for the duration of their stay, and was promptly greeted with Soundwave rolling off of the berth and whipping out two pistols, both pointed at his head.
Reflexes kicking in, Prowl produced his own pistol, aiming it straight at Soundwave’s spark, but not before the mech shifted his aim to split his firepower between he and Smokescreen.
"Slag me!"
Smokescreen scrambled off the berth, throwing up both of his hands as the laser sight on the second pistol settled squarely on the red arrow in the center of his interface panel. Despite being what Prowl generally considered a complete and total waste of bolts, he could not fault the mech for his preservation instinct. Smokescreen froze, a pained look blooming on his features.
"Fraaag. He…has a gun, and it's pointing at my spike." Smokescreen's voice was a study in horror. "Prowl, it's pointing at my spike! Prowl--"
"Would you rather it was pointed at your face?" Prowl snapped wishing once again that he’d refused to attend the Revels. Or, better yet, that he’d simply had the foresight to leave Smokescreen in Praxus.
Smokescreen was quiet for a long moment. "...Yes?"
Soundwave obliged the request, shifting his aim from Smokescreen's interface panel to the center of his chevron while never wavering from the bead he had on Prowl.
"Are you happy now?" Prowl's voice was a low hiss as he tried to formulate a plan that would a.) not rely on his idiot brother and b.) not be immediately detected by the fragging telepath with a gun to their heads.
"No, not really." Smokescreen paused, obviously considering his circumstances. "But yes."
Not for the first time, Prowl fervently wished he could shoot his brother with no repercussions.
"This is why you don't interface with strange bots Smokescreen."
Smokescreen's fans whirred with an irritated little huff. "It was all part of the plan, you know."
Plan? "What plan?"
"Smokescreen: spying for the Council since the moment he entered Protihex." Soundwave provided, his voice distant as he kept telepathic focus on both mechs.
"...what?"
"It's a living." Smokescreen shrugged, dropping to communicating through their bond. //That's why you could never find out how I got that work license. The whole cultural research thing? It's a ruse. Cultural research is just what the Intelligence division calls their assignments.//
Prowl looked unsettled, but was quick to pick up on Smokescreen's intent. "And here we are with guns aimed at our heads. That's *some* living." //You mean everybot you've wandered off with was part of an Intelligence investigation?//
"Spoilsport." //Pretty much. Except for those hot aft twins; that was just too good to an opportunity to pass up. But I digress. You have to admit, I had even you fooled.//
Prowl wondered if he could get away with--a heavy pressure settled on his mind, attempting to sift through his thoughts. He hastily brought up a mental image of the most repugnant thing he could imagine as a distraction, one of the few tactics they’d been taught to employ when dealing with the rare telepathic encounter. //And Soundwave?//
Noticing Soundwave beginning to shift stance--either to fire and duck out the way, or just make a run for the door--Smokescreen shifted back to verbal communication. "Soundwave here's been a very busy mech these past few vorns. Protihex has a nasty criminal ring operating through some of the guilds. Intel's been wanting to get a bead on the organization for a long time now, and Soundwave's one of their operatives. Took me a while to work my way through to an actual lead."
Prowl almost, almost pitied Soundwave. Running afoul of the Intelligence and Security Agency was one of the quickest ways to earn a sentence to the mines. Or one of the few gladiatorial rings left operating. Which one was worse was a toss-up. Intel would grind a mech like Soundwave under their heels and throw him to the proverbial cyber-wolves, if only for his audacity. Cybertron didn't need artists, didn't need half the artisans in Protihex, but they let the guilds stand and maintain a sort of autonomy of their own. Soundwave, outside the city-state would have been nothing, just another bot with an inherited function, but here? Here he was from one of the most respected guilds in Protihex, and a ranking mech within it at that; bots that attained the rank of Savant were second only to the guild master in skill and learning, and it was from their ranks that Patrons chose the next guild master. Given the autonomy and privileges of his rank that Soundwave possessed--had possessed--he'd technically ranked all but the loftiest of noble mechs.
No longer now. "Why throw all of it away, Soundwave?"
"Throw it all away? Hardly. The Patrons have bled this city-state dry for millennia, profiting off the labor of the guilds and then blowing it all on a lavish spectacle." Soundwave sneered. "And for what? To create a tribute to present to the council for a blind-optic turned to their corruption until the next Revel? The Patrons pile debts against our marques, holding us in elaborate slavery to line their accounts, then squander it again and again. We artists never had anything."
It was, to be fair, a valid claim. If there was an iota of truth to what Soundwave claimed. He had little knowledge of Protihexan customs and history outside of the rumor and myths indulged by its own denizens, but it was no secret that the city was one of excesses, and most especially during the Revels. He did not doubt for one astrosecond that sickening amounts of credits were funneled into each guild's Tribute, which were collected by the Senator of Protihex and in turn gifted to the Council. Any one of the Tributes gifted would be enough to keep a bot in lavish comfort for their entire function; there were 13 Tributes routinely gifted to the Council. That was certainly more than enough credits involved to let a city-state exercise their particular brand of freedom.
"Say what you will about not having anything; this has gained you nothing."
Soundwave's reply was the whine of a pistol charging up to fire. "Correction: I have gained plenty. I've become part of the system, not a victim of it. I'm protected now, and I the credits I earn don't automatically fall back to the Patroness in the name a marque, or guild fees, or a dozen other trappings that keep the artists impoverished and the Patrons rich."
Prowl's doorwings flicked sharply. "You're not so protected now. Your little side venture jeopardized your guild, and the Alpha Maestro dismissed you. You're Guildless now. I doubt you're worth the it to whoever holds your leash."
Soundwave's visor dimmed in shock and Prowl could almost see Soundwave's processes grinding to a halt. "What?” Soundwave snarled. “Lies!”
Prowl didn’t fight against the sudden intrusion into his processor, letting Soundwave feel the truth of his words.
“NO! I...he...the Alpha Maestro...Jazz...but..." Soundwave's aim wavered and it was all the opening Smokescreen needed. He'd remained in the background as much as possible, letting Prowl do all the talking, waiting for a moment he could exploit. A gun not aimed at his head was opening enough.
Smokescreen launched himself forward, rolling under Soundwave's line of fire and swept the mech's legs out from under him. He was not a melee fighter of any particular skill, that area being more of Prowl's expertise, but his brother had drilled enough of the basics into him that he could at least handle himself, and the element of surprise was with him. There was a brief scuffle that ended with him astride Soundwave's back, pinning the struggling mech to the floor.
"You know, this could have been a lot more fun 40, 50 breems ago."
"I hope you catch nano-crabs!" Soundwave hissed.
Smokescreen shook his head, ignoring his captive as he slipped a pair of mag-cuffs and a restraining bolt out of his subspace "I'm going to go ahead and arrange his transfer to Iacon.” Soundwave’s struggles tapered off as Smokescreen activated the restraining bolt and his mental processes began to lag and not respond, effectively neutralizing him.
“How long?” Prowl asked quietly, wondering just how badly he’d underestimated Smokescreen-to say nothing of anyone else.
“Long enough that the act’s become pretty much flawless.“ Smokescreen paused, then grinned recklessly. “Flawless, and indescribably fun. I get away with murder.”
That sense of guilt and growing pride fled almost instantly, before it’d even been fully born. Prowl’s doorwings drooped with resignation. “You are hopeless.”
“Probably.” Smokescreen straightened, staring down at his captive. “On a serious note, I don't have to tell you that you saw nothing, officially speaking. Right? Matter of fact, shouldn't you be at The Harmonium? Their Tribute begins soon."
Prowl's lip plates quirked in amusement. "I'll make something suitably torrid up to excuse your absence."
"Good, good."
*********** ************ *************
“What will you do?” Blaster’s voice was unusually quiet, filled with worry and the remnants of disbelief. All of Choragus was stunned by the news that Jazz would be performing the Tribute solo. No one doubted his skill, but he would have to succeed at the impossible. The guild was torn, some already mourning Jazz’s loss (Impossible; it was impossible, even for Jazz), or bracing themselves for the performance of a lifetime (If anyone could pull this off, it would of course be Jazz! They didn’t just give out the title of Alpha Maestro for nothing!).
Jazz himself was sequestered in his office, staring intently at the wall behind him that housed his personal instruments. An orb of pure white Praxian crystal (yet another of Prowl’s gifts) flashed between his hands as he let it roll over and around his plating in fluid whirls; it was a trick learned early in his youngling stage, back when he’d still been a ward of Arabesque, the drama guild, and Choragus had yet to purchase his marque and adopt him into their fold.
“I don’t know yet.” Jazz set the orb he’d been juggling aside and reached out to trace the scrollwork on the column of a delicate harp before ruling it out. “How much time do I have left?”
“Almost a full joor.”
A soft voice cut through the tense silence of the Jazz’s office, and both Jazz and Blaster whirled to face their unexpected guest. “Patroness.” Jazz’s visor brightened in surprise as he inclined his head politely towards Glyph.
“Alpha Maestro. Blaster.”
Blaster bowed at the obvious dismissal and clapped Jazz on the shoulder before vacating the room. It was a long moment before Glyph, assured of her privacy, turned back to face Jazz. “I don’t want to make an example of you, Jazz. You are the best musician in this guild, and you have the makings of a spectacular guild master, given time and experience to come into your own.” Glyph’s gaze hardened. “I won’t, however, allow you to do whatever you want out of some misplaced sense of artistic pride. I refuse to fight for control of the guild against the one mech that should be my ally. You picked a horrible time for politicking.”
Jazz scoffed. “Politicking? That’s the last thing on my mind, I assure you. I’m only thinking of the guild, Patroness. For better or for worse, one of our best Savants was just dismissed, and our principal percussionist along with him. We will be lucky to keep that quiet for a megacycle; To not perform a Tribute on top of that? It’ll be another century before the scandal dies down.” Jazz shook his head. “We can’t afford that. We’ve too many coming up on their marque deadlines to hinder their solicitations with a bad reputation.”
Glyph sighed. “Well, it’s reassuring to know you aren’t doing this for your own arrogance.” She frowned suddenly, and Jazz felt a chill go down his struts. Glyph was always a bit…formal, a bit stuffy even, but there was just something about her that screamed danger when she was displeased. “Be that as it may, I am holding you to your boast. There’s a lesson for you to learn about hasty words. If you fail, I am levying everything against your marque.” Glyph produced a scroll from her subspace. “If, however, you succeed you will only have the cost of the sheet music to deal with.”
“…Patroness?”
“There is one piece that is good enough to stand as a Tribute, and you are skilled enough that you could perform it on such short notice; you sight read extraordinarily well, and I’ve no doubt your tendency towards embellishment will serve you well with this piece.” Glyph smirked. “I’m not above stacking the odds when it’s the guild’s reputation on the line.”
Jazz’s visor brightened in hopeful curiosity. “What is it?”
“The Last Invention.”
The Last Invention? Jazz considered for a moment, then jerked in shock. “Surely not-”
“Euphonium’s Last Invention? Indeed it is.”
Jazz boggled. “Euphonium died before it was completed-some say it doesn’t even exist.”
“Oh, it exists. The Patron before me claimed it as his due because Euphonium died with an outstanding marque price, and with his deactivation it’s passed to general house property. It’s mostly complete. Almost entirely complete. No one dared to attempt to finish it, and I preferred to save it for an emergency. This qualifies, and you? You, I think, are the only one in this guild with the struts to even attempt it.”
“Tell truth and shame the Unmaker.” Jazz reached for it with a self-deprecating grin, but Glyph quickly yanked it back.
“The truth costs you 15,000 credits.”
“Against my marque?”
Glyph nodded. “Against your marque.”
Jazz fell silent. It wasn’t even a tenth of the cost of a Tribute, which regularly garnered upwards of 200,000 credits, but still…
But still, it was still considerably less than what he stood to lose otherwise. His own marque had settled at 30,000 credits.
Glyph passed him the scroll. “I assure you this is the easier way, and you’ll easily earn that back and twice more in commissions if you succeed.”
True enough, but he rather wished he’d been less hasty with his words. Glyph didn’t miss the flash of contrition either. “I’ll consider your lesson learned; this we’ll consider your penance?”
She didn’t wait for an answer, turning to leave the room.
“Patroness?”
Glyph paused, barely a step away from the desk. “Yes, Jazz?”
The thank you wouldn’t come; not soon with his pride still stinging, not verbally, but Jazz had always preferred action to words, anyway. He bowed deeply, deeper than he had for anyone in his function. Glyph’s gaze softened. “Best be off then, Alpha Maestro. The Last Invention won’t play itself. ” Jazz straightened, and turned to examine his instruments. Transposing the Last Invention would probably be the easier part of his task.
“Cyber-cello.” Glyph prompted as she exited his office. “Euphonium wrote it for the cyber-cello.”
****** ******** ************
“And he intends to do this himself?” Prowl demanded, ensconced with Mirage and Tracks in the private balcony set just over stage left.
Mirage nodded. “For better or for worse, yes. Musicians can be so melodramatic about this sort of thing, and Jazz is no exception. But still, it’s a Tribute. What he’s doing isn’t impossible per say.”
“It’s just that no one’s managed to pull it off in the history of the guild, correct?”
“The last time it was tried, the Ember didn’t even react. Some bots that remember it still swear that the Ember dimmed it was so awful.”
Prowl frowned, wondering if tonight he would be witnessing yet another such failure.
An expectant silence fell over the inner auditorium as the lights dimmed, the heavy navy curtains pulling back to reveal the elegant silhouette of Choragus’ Alpha Maestro, a cyber-cello nearly his match in height cradled resting against his shoulder, the bow resting at his side.
“Lord Senator, honored guests, denizens of Protihex, we present to you our Tribute: Euphonium’s Last Invention, adapted and performed by Jazz, Alpha Maestro of Choragus.” Glyph’s dignified voice fade under the gasps and murmurs of surprise that gave way to applause.
Tracks looked ill. “Solus help him, he’d better not ruin this. This crowd will have him for scrap if he doesn’t pull this off.”
“The last thing Jazz needs is us doubting him. Besides, if anyone can do this, it will be Jazz.” Mirage glared at Tracks before turning to Prowl. “Remember to keep a watch on the Ember; its reactions will determine the worth of the Tribute.”
Prowl nodded, is gaze flickering over to the glowing silver and black lump of twisted metal that all but filled the nest of ornate cloth carried in the Priest’s arms. He’d seen the Ember - rumored to be part of the spark casing of Solus Prime herself - release blue sparks of energy, emit a glowing silver aura, even blaze up momentarily with an eerie flame before settling back down at other Tributes. He didn’t care what it did now, so long as *something* happened.
The noise-grown now to a near fever pitch-abruptly dwindled as Jazz held up his bow, ordering them to silence.
Prowl had known artistry; Praxus drilled ceremony and protocol and excellence into their young, and only ever expected it to increase with age. He’d seen musicians perform enduring masterworks that seemed to evoke a spectrum of emotions within the audience, had seen paintings that were unmatched by reality itself. Praxus did not necessarily produce art in scale or quality like Protihex, but they would never be accused of not appreciating it.
This? Prowl knew he had never - probably would never - seen the like.
It was reckless. Playful. Fierce and wicked, fingers gliding across taught strings as he summoned up common notes and imbued them with a richness and passion that transformed them into something altogether new, something purely his own that had yet to be matched by any other.
Sometimes he used the bow. Sometimes he plucked at the strings in a brisk pizzicato, sometimes he scratched at the strings, creating a surprising sort of percussion to mix in with the melody. Historically, Euphonium used the entirety of the instrument to produce his pieces, not restrained to just the strings. Obviously, Jazz prescribed to the same school of thought, and had entirely mastered it.
The notes and sounds he produced were flung together in reckless abandon, unconcerned of tradition and convention. They tumbled into each other, melding in odd places, crashing into each other elsewhere; they flowed and stuttered, a discordant melody that drew one in and played havoc with the senses before flying off into a fluid harmonic arpeggio. One moment coaxing and seductive, the next raging. Violent. Melancholy and exultation interchanging at a whim.
Jazz lost himself in the Invention, filtering every ounce of emotion and (quite considerable) skill he possessed into the piece. Prowl glanced over at the Ember and startled; a blue aura, tinted with flecks of gold (how?!) had spiraled up over the relic, twisting and flowing in a sort of metaphysical dance, clearly guided by ebb and flow of Jazz’s music.
He wasn’t the only one to notice, more than a few heads in the audience turning to gaze at the Ember in astonishment before whipping back around to focus even more intently on Jazz. Others remained transfixed on Jazz himself. He could just barely make out Blaster in the orchestra pit, a fierce grin on his face. The Patroness herself had a hand resting over her spark, clearly moved.
Euphonium’s Last Invention slowly wound down, and Prowl caught himself leaning forward out of his seat, chasing (captured?) by the last strains of the song,
Amidst the roar of applause and exultant cheering, the Ember’s golden aura continued to lazily twist and turn in the darkened auditorium, testament to Jazz’s triumph.