My body's been taken over by aliens! HELP!
Title: Newton's Law (2/?)
Rating: Eventually? R-NC17
Warnings: angst, drama, hurt feelings, and mech-seckz
Universe: G1 pre-Earth
Summary: For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. It is never nice, it is never neat, and it always hurts like the Pit.
Authoress's Notes: I don't know what to make of my mind. The first chapter was so hard to get on paper, but this one just flowed. (Yet you probably can't tell the difference, meh.) You proabably also can't tell that I agonized over what to call Jazz's brother. I tell you, I scoured my music dictionary for a good hour. Am I a total orch-dork for having a music dictionary? Yes. Yes I am. (Back beat, by the way, is an emphasis put on the second and fourth beats of a measure, something a doublebassist like myself has seen much of in her life.)
Also, to avoid confusion, no this is not the night after the previous chapter. It's the night before. I'm alternating chapters -- the morning after: Prowl, the night before: Jazz.
Jazz punched in his entrance code a little more viciously than was required, growling irritably to himself as he did so. He earned a few wary stares from passing pedestrians, but he didn’t care. All he cared about was getting inside his apartment, refueling, and collapsing on his berth for a few joors before he had to return to Headquarters.
He shuddered at that last thought. Going to Headquarters meant seeing Him again, a thought in and of itself unappealing, disgustingly so with how bad of a mood he was in now.
He’d had a Pit of an orn. It seemed every time he turned around, there He was, blocking his every efforts to simply do his job. The orn had started badly, what with Optimus ordering a rather suicidal recon mission. The plan had stunk of Him. Jazz had gone to confront Prime, demand to know what had short-circuited his motherboard, but He had been there, standing behind Optimus with that cool, emotionless stare that Jazz despised so greatly. Being the oh so helpful bot he was, He calmly pointed out that if he, Jazz, couldn’t handle the mission, perhaps some bots of lesser rank would be willing to fill in where their Third in Command - the title was said with a small sneer - lacked the courage to perform.
The orn only went downhill from there. Though Jazz did not see Him again - save once, when he needed a signature, something He made Jazz wait half a joor to get - the near impossible mission hanging over his head made it impossible for Jazz to reclaim his usual cheery disposition. He spent the day growling and grumbling at Him under his breath, blaming Him for every little thing that went wrong. He couldn’t find a data-pad he needed - His fault. The energon dispenser broke - probably because He touched it. He snapped his stylus in half - because thinking of Him made him clench his fists too tightly!
At long last, though, he was home. (Albeit late, because He had given him so much work to do.) He trudged through the front door, instantly feeling a proverbial weight lift from his shoulder struts. He was home now. No snooty, logical tacticians to bother him here.
“Music on,” he ordered his automated system as he locked the door behind him. Picking up where it had been shut off that morning, it started playing in the middle of a loud, fast-paced song. It was aggressive enough to suit Jazz’s mood, and one of his usual favorites. He started bobbing his head in time to the beat as he shuffled his way to his little kitchen. The song followed.
He snagged an empty cube off the countertop, grimacing when he saw the crusted remains of his morning energon lingering in the bottom. He threw it into the small sink, resolving to wash it later (he simply was not in the mood for chores right now), and went to one of the cupboards for a clean one. He found something better.
“Oh, sweet Primus,” he moaned, pulling down one of the cubes full of high-grade and prying off the seal. “Thank you, Sideswipe, you forgetful little glitch, you.”
He downed half the cube in one gulp, only half aware that it was not the usual over-powering taste of the Twins’ usual brew. He did not linger on its level of potency long, however, as the effects of the strong stuff on his empty tanks and depleted systems was almost immediate. He felt the buzz course through his chassis, tingling in all the right places and energizing his tired systems.
Not satisfied, he dug through a drawer. Where were those energon goodies, he just bought them yester - ah! He shoved one or two in his mouth, then snagged a handful to munch on in his room.
He left the kitchen, taking another swig of his high-grade as he went. He marched over to one of the many shelves lining his sitting room walls, the one that held a much-loved holo-photo.
“Hey, bro,” he said to the holo-image. “Been a while. How ya holdin’ up?”
The holo-image, of course, did not respond. It never did. But that did not deter Jazz from talking to his long-deactivated co-creation.
“Had a nasty orn m’self,” the saboteur went on, munching on another goodie. “He keeps on buttin’ his olfactory sensor where it don’t belong, as usual. Just don’ know when to quit, that mech.”
Backbeat simply smiled, arm wrapped around a much younger version of Jazz.
“I jus’ don’ know what t’ do ‘bout Him anymore,” Jazz muttered sullenly. “’S’like, we’re on the same side, ain’t we? Why’s He makin’ it so hard to do my job?”
His brother had no answer for that. But then again, neither did Jazz. The visored mech sighed.
“Well, night, Beat.” Smiling, he put an energon goodie next to his brother’s holo-image. “You can have the last one. Primus knows I’ve had ‘nough.”
Nightly ritual over, Jazz turned away from the shelf and headed for his room, Backbeat’s optics following as he went.
A new song had begun playing while Jazz was talking to his co-creation. Another one of his favorites - but then, didn’t he love any and all music? He began humming along, shuffling his feet in time to the beat. Soon enough he was singing along with the words, all out dancing his way to his room and waiting berth. It was a bit uncoordinated, as the effects of the high-grade and goodies, having been given some time to stew, were really setting in.
Shouldering his way into his room - was the door being extra slow tonight or was that just the energy buzz getting to him? - he threw back the rest of his cube.
“Wanna see you dance, wanna see you move,” he crooned along with the music, resuming his dance. The music was reaching a crescendo. Jazz, feeling particularly energetic now that he’d had time to unwind, leapt into the air, twisting in a circle.
It was perhaps a bad idea, the dimly-lit room combined with the high-grade leaving him rather clumsy. He landed on the edge of his ped, throwing him off balance and to the floor. He landed hard on his aft, giggling to himself.
Well, at least no one was here to see him.
Then came a cool, emotionless voice, saying, “Very smooth, Jazz.”