Trinkets 6
Title: Trinkets 6/?
By: gilded_orchid
Rating: PG-13
Universe: G1/Alignment-verse AU
Characters: Jazz, Prowl, Glyph, Starscream, Soundwave, Casseticons. Mentions of Sentinel Prime and D-16 (Megatronus).
Content: Pre-War/Exodus AU, The prompt involved with this is scarlet/beginning of a beautiful friendship
Words: 2845
A/N: We’re moving closer to war, but Megatron and Orion have yet to cross paths, so I’m moving up the timeline into an Exodus AU. Also, I swear that I tried really hard not to make Sentinel Prime a complete and utter tool, but heck, even canon knows he’s an asshole… =_= Anyway, one done, last being typed up now!
“No.”
Jazz crossed his arms as he faced down Glyph over the screen of the comm unit in his suite, a scowl marring his usually jovial expression.
Glyph’s lip plating compressed into a thin line. “It wasn’t a request, Alpha Maestro. Sentinel Prime wishes to commemorate his bi-millennial anniversary, and he wants the best. The Coliseum is being reopened to host a gladiatorial games, and there will be parades and festivities, and staggering amounts of energon, and he wants music.” Glyph gestured angrily at the screen. “He wants the best, and he won’t settle for just any guild member; he wants the guild masters.”
“Ignoring the fact that I want nothing to do with this senseless spectacle, I have standing obligations, Patroness! It’s nearing the concert cycles, and we’re booked nearly every mega-cycle!
Glyph jabbed a finger at the view screen. “We’ll have to reschedule, Jazz. If the Prime wants the Alpha Maestro, he gets the Alpha Maestro, and the Alpha Maestro better fragging well grovel at the privilege! This isn’t the Revels; you don’t get to flout authority at this level and-“ Glyph broke off as a loud cacophony echoed outside her chamber.
Jazz startled, recognizing the sound of shattering crystal. “Was that a chandelier?!”
Glyph’s buried her head in her hands. “I’ll kill them…look, I don’t care about what crisis of conscious you’re dealing with, just do it.” Glyph cut the connection, clearly nearing wit’s end. Jazz didn’t think it was just his unwillingness to perform that had her riled up-if Sentinel Prime had descended on Protihex with his usual overbearing demands then it was likely the entire city was in an uproar.
The fragger. Jazz’s hand clenched into a fist and he fought down the urge to plant it through the wall. He doubted the proprietor would understand nor pardon the damage.
“I take it you received the invitation?”
Jazz glanced over his shoulder as Prowl entered the room, he himself having stepped out to speak with a messenger from Sentinel Prime’s staff.
“You have to actually ask for it to be an invitation, mech. I was summoned.” Jazz’s armor rippled in disgust. “You can’t think this is right.”
Prowl ran a hand over his chevron in frustration. “It’s not about what I think, Jazz. It’s about what Prime wants, and the politics of it.”
“Politics!?” Jazz spat, “How is this political! This is just senseless carnage!”
Prowl took a seat, shaking his head in disagreement. “You’re too emotional about this to see my point; take a step back and look at it from a clinical angle. Yes, it’s brutal. Yes, it’s extravagant and incredibly egotistical, but it’s a brilliant political move nonetheless. Sentinel knows he’s not the most beloved Prime Cybertron has had, or even the most respected, and even the Council is starting to lose patience with him now that public favor has turned so far against him. The Games will distract them.”
“No surprise there.” Jazz muttered as he searched out a decanter of refined ultra-grade.
The public will leap at the chance for entertainment and simple relaxation that they so rarely see, and it will pacify most of them. This plays to their baser instincts, and they will love him for it. The Council will handle much the same way, however much they like to hide behind caste rank and delude themselves they are better than the common bot.”
“No one’s that stupid, Prowl.” Jazz plunked two micro-cubes on the table and filled them to the brim.
“You’ve never sat through a Council session.” Prowl grumbled darkly, poking at his cube briefly. “Most Cybertronians are exactly that stupid, and the rest easily swayed by the mob. Individuals are intelligent, but Sentinel Prime doesn’t intend to engage the individual; he’s going to unify them with the spectacle and play to their accumulated whim. He’ll be coasting off the favor from that move for at least a few centuries.” Prowl lamented, slamming back his micro-cube.
Jazz mirrored the motion and poured them another round. “This is tasteless and wrong. We ended the Games after the Quintessons were defeated. The only gladiatorial rings left are the ones operating on the fringes of society and in Kaon, and that’s completely rock bottom! I don’t compose to glorify the exploitation of the downtrodden or those who have no choice but to slaughter themselves for others’ amusement! There’s no beauty or glory in this.”
“No, there isn’t.” Prowl stared down at his cube, then finished that one off as well.
“You’re one of his advisors, can’t you say something? Stop this nonsense?”
Prowl sighed wearily. “Sentinel Prime does not listen to anyone or anything when it comes to moderation. He’s set in his ways and takes criticism very poorly. He only listen’s to me when he wants something destroyed.”
Jazz laughed bitterly. “He should be all audials, then.”
**** **** ****
“What a mess.”
The guard stared down at the gruesome remains of what had once been a gladiator. The mech hadn’t been fast enough to avoid a point-blank shop from a modified fusion cannon, and it had reduced his frame to little more than molten slag. He wasn’t even sure there was anything they could salvage out of the frame.
Another guard approached wincing at the twisted pile of metal and…goo that had once been a fellow mechanism. “Aw, frag. The boss is going to insufferable now. That’s the third one this orn.”
“Yeah…I think this was the one with all the Minicon symbiotes.”
“Really? I hope they weren’t still Linked, then. The backlash might do ‘em in, too.”
The first guard shrugged. “Probably best that way. It’s rough enough taking care of the fighters; we don’t have the resources to spare nursing a batch of symbiotes that can’t even defend themselves without a Host mech.”
“Did you see them around anywhere?”
“Nah.”
The two guards remained quiet for a long moment, then one transformed into a tow truck, hooking the remains with his cable. “Well, let’s get this cleaned up.” The second guard transformed into another truck, and the two of them sped off, the remains dragging behind them.
Partially hidden behind a wall, Soundwave shuddered at the callousness. Was this to be his fate, then? Slaughtered and dumped out behind the rings like trash? He didn’t doubt his deactivation would come sooner rather than later; he was no warrior, and even though he’d used his telepathy to glean what advantages he could, it would only get him so far.
Soundwave let himself slide down to the ground, resigned to his fate, and tired. He was so tired. After his sentencing, the first thing the guards had done was disable all of his mods, including the one that kept his telepathy in check. Now, every thought battered at his processor, and it was impossible to find room for himself in his own mind. It was a blessing and a curse, because it allowed him to predict his opponents moves in combat, but the drain on his energon levels was horrible; it was a very real chance that the managers might write him off as cheaper dead than alive, just because of the credits he diverted from their hands.
Unable to fully block out the thoughts around him, Soundwave steeled himself as brushes of fear, rage, and bitterness washed over him. A few splashes of relief-Games had been halted until Sentinel Prime’s anniversary when they’d all be sent to the Coliseum-despair; that one wouldn’t last the night, planning on self-terminating-determination and hope…what?
Soundwave latched onto that last set of emotion, letting it draw him towards a collective of five minds…no six, albeit a very faint sixth. Symbiotes!
Soundwave focused his telepathy on the collective, finding some relief in the act simply because focusing on a particular mind did more to grant him relief than anything save turning it off.
//We’ll ask the new on they brought in a few decacycles ago. He’s a Host!//
//He’s from Protihex, Frenzy. There’s no way an artist is going to survive very long in the rings. We’ll be back at square one again!//
//We don’t exactly have an option here, Ravage. Ratbat was still Linked with that stupid fragger when he got slagged, and if he doesn’t get a Host to anchor him he’s going to fade! We all are, at this rate.//
//What even makes you think he’ll do it, Rumble? Simply being a Host doesn’t make him beholden to free symbiotes at all.//
//Laserbeak said she and Buzzsaw could trade him a chip loaded with combat protocols that they stole off of one of the gladiators. It’s more than a fair trade for anchoring Ratbat! And it’s only for a joor or two; just enough to stabilize him!//
//Again, you expect him to be willing Rumble.//
Soundwave made his way down the corridors of the gladiatorial pit, mostly ignored by the other gladiators, who were more concerned with themselves and surviving another day. It was a good offer; he could easily anchor upwards of twenty symbiotes with no problem. One would be no drain on his resources, and he could use the combat chip. Needed it, to be honest.
He found them a few breems later, all of them huddled in an isolated corner of the pit. He doubted any of them were out of their youngling stages; they were small, even for Minicons, and none of them even had weapon systems. Those were the last things to develop on a youngling before they upgraded to adult frames. How in Primus’ name had younglings ended up here!?
He stepped into view, and the ones still online bristled defensively. The sixth…Ratbat...lay limply on the floor, pitiful squeaks erupting from his vocalizer as he shuddered.
“Soundwave: does not intend to harm. Heard conversation.”
The red one-Frenzy? Rumble?-perked up instantly. “I told you guys!”
“Why would you do this?” Ravage demanded, placing a wary paw over Ratbat. “Nothing’s free.”
“We’re paying him, Ravage! That’s why.” Buzzsaw reached into his subspace and pulled out a chip. “We took this off of one of the gladiators. He had a long run going, before they pit him against D-16. We took his combat chip before the salvagers got to him. Save Ratbat, and it’s yours.”
All of them needed saving, Soundwave mused. Ratbat was in the most danger as he’d been Linked to their Host when he was killed, but none of the Minicons were precisely well off. They were clearly malnourished and in sub-standard health; he could see the beginnings of spark-fade in all of them.
Laserbeak nudged at Ratbat with her helm. “Please. It’s just for a joor or two; you don’t have-“
“Soundwave: acknowledges.”
Soundwave gently picked up Ratbat, letting his mind wrap around the youngest Minicon as a plethora of data cables extended out from his armor. One he plugged into Ratbat; the others he left extended in open invitation. “Observation: All symbiotes in need of anchor.”
Looks of blatant disbelief rocked over all of their faces before Rumble and Frenzy each lunged for a cable, hardly thinking about questioning such an offer; he didn’t blame them. They were showing the largest signs of spark-fade besides Ratbat.
“We have nothing else to offer, musician.”
“Payment: already offered. All symbiotes: anchor.”
Buzzsaw and Laserbeak shared a long look between themselves before each one reached for a cable as well. Finally, it was just down to Soundwave and Ravage.
“I don’t know what your angle is, but if you try anything weird, I’ll find a way to kill you.” The femme’s voice was dark as she edged around her fellow Minicons, covering them protectively. “Why?”
Soundwave was silent a long moment before he replied. “Why not?”
**** **** ****
Prowl sighed internally as he straightened the two scarlet red leather sashes that crossed his chest plates, wishing yet again that Sentinel Prime would return to his senses. His rank decals had been polished and applied earlier by Jazz’s helpful hands before the Alpha Maestro wandered off, no doubt to get in the last few moments of fuming he could before the processions started.
“Nice paint job. I’d heard rumors that the Protihexans had gotten hold of you.”
Prowl heaved a sigh as a red and white Seeker strode over to his side after locking the door, the rank decals accenting his leather sash proclaiming him to be the Cybertronian Air Commander. “Starscream.”
“Prowl.” Starscream reached out to adjust the rank decals on his door panels before speaking. Satisfied with his work, Starscream stepped back and met Prowl’s gaze with his own brilliant red optics. “Lord Marshall, your Prime is honking mad and needs to be shot.”
Leave it to Starscream to speak treason as if discussing the weather.
“Illegality and acts of treason aside, that's especially appalling since you’re his bodyguard.”
Starscream smirked. “No, hear me out. If we shoot him he’ll have to go to the medics, and then we’ll have them fix whatever is glitching his processor while he’s in stasis.”
“And if there’s no processor glitch?”
Starscream froze. “I refuse to accept a reality where this is normal behavior for a Prime, and not manifestation of a particularly bizarre glitch.”
“I thought it was your job to keep him grounded in sanity.”
“Hard to do when he’s running around Cybertron getting cratered. Besides, he likes you best. We don’t even get to argue with him anymore. It’s all, ‘Quiet, Starscream’ this and “Know your place, Skywarp’ that.”
Prowl’s door panels twitched in resignation. “Then we’re all out of look, because he’s not listening to anyone then.”
Starscream sighed. “Well, something needs to be done. All this frippery is ridiculous. The blasted fool has scarlet banners and flags covering every free surface of the Coliseum, and then that statue…”
Prowl shuddered as he snapped an amber visor over his optics. “Do not, do not, mention that abomination.”
“How can you avoid it? Can you believe he actually called in a sculptor to add in his scars?”
Prowl froze in horror. “Surely you didn’t come here to depress me further.”
“Why not? Misery loves company, after all. But no, I just wanted to inform you that the opening ceremony is about to start. We need to get up to the balconies.”
Prowl nodded, the two of them falling into step side by side as they headed towards Sentinel Prime.
**** **** ****
So much red… red banners commemorating Sentinel Prime’s bi-millennial hung from the rafters of the Coliseum, while Cybertron’s crest had been splayed across a red flag that dangled from the balcony that Sentinel Prime sat in, flanked by three Seeker bodyguards. The next balcony to the right housed Prowl and another Seeker that bore the crest of the Air Commander. His orchestra would be housed below that balcony, and swaths of scarlet-almost the same shade as Sentinel Prime’s accenting-were draped across their seats.
He didn’t want to see this. Didn’t want to contribute to it. Jazz stared down at the blue visor in his hands and gently pulled it off, replacing it with smoky black visor. His normal decals and accenting had been blacked out as well; his own-and apparently the performing ensembles’ Jazz amended as he looked over at his assembled guild members-not-quite subtle protest.
The coordinator gestured at him, indicating it was time to begin. Jazz pulled a pure black conductor’s baton from is subspace, bracing himself once more before he strode through the opening doors of the Coliseum.
Up in the balcony, Prowl startled at Jazz’s appearance while Starscream made a low noise.
“Apparently someone else realizes what a mess this is. I’ll give your Alpha Maestro points for intelligence and basic decency.”
“He was…very vocal about his displeasure earlier.” Prowl chanced a glance over at Sentinel Prime’s box, but if the mech was displeased, he certainly didn’t let it show. Prowl felt a bit of his concern evaporate; Sentinel Prime was not the sort to hide displeasure, diplomacy be damned. Jazz performed a crisp bow just deep enough to be acceptable. There was none of his usual grace or emotion in the move; only the barest of necessities. Sentinel Prime waved Jazz onward with a flourish, and Prowl didn’t know whether to laugh or mourn that Sentinel hadn’t realized what was going on, caught up as he was in his ego.
“I can’t believe this is happening.” Prowl muttered somberly as Jazz struck up his players.
Starscream grimaced. “I can’t believe we’re letting it.”