Trinkets 7C/?
Oh Primus, there was so much energon. All over his arms, his legs, leaking out from the seams of his chest plating...
Soundwave’s once pristine blue armor was coated in dull pink energon splatters, blackened lubricant and oils smeared around the edges of an awful gash that went from left shoulder to right hip joint, exposing torn wiring and shredded hydraulics. Deep beneath a cluster of wires, Jazz could make out the exposed edges of silver spark casing, the glowing blue light of Soundwave’s spark too dim by far.
Unsure of where he could actually touch without further aggravating already extensive injuries, Jazz hesitated, then slipped his hands underneath Soundwave’s shoulders to help lift him off of the mound while Blaster had grasped hold of the other leg, enabling the cassetticons to better handle the one they had. None of them could probably inflict more than damage than what had already been done, and they had a medic close at hand. They placed Soundwave on a relatively clean spot of the floor, Jazz cradling the broken mech’s helm on his lap.
There was damage there too, Jazz noted with a dawning horror, a trail of dried energon running down the back and side of his helm; Soundwave taken a hard blow to his helm, crumpling in an audial senor almost as sensitive as his own, and actually exposing a bit of neural circuitry. Dread settled over his shoulders; it would take an act of Primus to save Soundwave.
Knock Out stepped forward, but was met with sudden resistance by the feline-based cassetticon, who began hissing at him in open warning, while the two flight models swooped about his head driving him away.
“Hey! Cut it out you little pests!” Knock Out tried to beat the cassetticons off, but it was no use. Meanwhile, the red and blue pair of cassetticons whirled on Jazz and Blaster.
“What the frag are you doing!? You ain’t scrappin’ our mech!”
“Yeah! Let the boss go! You ain’t harvesting nothing off him!”
The smallest of them had tucked up under one of Soundwave’s hands, shooting suspicious glares at Jazz.
“Whoa, slow down guys!” Blaster crouched so that he was closer to the defensive cassetticons. “We’re friends of Soundwave, and we brought a medic to help him.”
“Friends?! The Boss ain’t got no friends down here!” The blue one retracted his hands to reveal a set of drills. "I’m gonna scrap all you lying slaggers!”
Knock Out succeeded in knocking away one of the fliers, and growled in frustration at the casseticon. “Look stupid, that there’s a set of upper caste mechs! Do you honestly think they’d need to scrounge around down here for spare parts?! They’re paying good credits to fix your bot, Primus knows why, so move out the way!”
There was an obvious flurry of communication between the cassetticons before the blue one waved his drill menacingly. “Fine, but the first time you do something suspicious, me and Rumble are gonna be on you like rust on an energon tanker!” The blue one snapped back, but all of them ceased their attacks, instead warily watching Knock Out as the mech knelt next to the downed musician.
“Primus, what a mess…” Barely even sure where to begin, Knock Out settled for making sure he could actually see the damage that needed repairing, and that meant getting Soundwave something resembling clean. Or at least not leaking out of every orifice, what with clean being pretty much a pipe dream. Three sponges and a bottle of spray solvent were pulled out of his subspace; one of the sponges was passed to Jazz, the cleanser and remaining sponges were thrown at the more vocal of the cassetticons.
“Get scrubbing you two. You want your meal ticket around? I’m not going to do all the work myself while you evil little fraggers just stare me down.”
“The Boss ain’t a meal ticket!”
“Right, and I graduated top of the class from Iacon General.” Knock Out snarked, hardly attempting to hide his voice.
The two bipedal cassetticons bristled, but set to work.
“This will do a quicker job.”
Blaster startled as Tracks approached, producing a can of Incandesca’s top-grade solvent that was gently pressed into his hand before the mech retreated back towards the front of the small chamber.
To be perfectly honest, he had expected both Mirage and Tracks to return topside to the Coliseum, but they had both followed he and Jazz down to the sub-levels of the Coliseum. Tracks he could somewhat understand following them; guild Incandesca was notorious for their intricate planet-spanning information network, so it made a twisted sort of sense for their guild-master’s heir-apparent to flout propriety in pursuit of what could be incredibly interesting gossip-there were numerous mechs and femmes who would pay dearly for any potential bargaining chip over a guild master-especially one of the more powerful ones like Jazz, who didn’t seem to have any sort of vulnerability when it came to social maneuvering.
He, Tracks and Mirage had long known that the quickest way to get to Jazz was to attack those he cared about, and had took pains to insure that they always avoid getting into any sort of entanglement that could somehow be used against Jazz. Soundwave was also one of those special few but the mech never had been able to avoid getting into trouble between one thing and another, regardless of how it might affect Jazz, and again and again Jazz would stick his neck out for Soundwave. Like now, and the mech was definitely flirting with crossing legal lines on his own, what with hiring a mech in an unregistered position and arranging services for a sentenced bot outside of sanctioned government facilities.
This was definitely something that could be used against Jazz, so of course Tracks was going to make sure to be the first to know about it so he could cover it up before it spread to the wrong individuals. It went without saying that Jazz would owe him a strong favor down the line, but that was just how Protihexans worked, trading in favors and nebulous IOUs. Tracks would be protected as he could easily claim to be working the gossip networks, so the mech was free to do as he willed.
Mirage was the true shocker. Unlike Tracks, Mirage didn’t need to track down every piece of gossip on Cybertron, and where Protihex and even Iacon might forgive a few eccentricities, the Towers most certainly did not. Bots, regardless of their rank, were expected to adhere to one of the most intricate and unforgiving strictures of social protocol. Everyone, from the lowliest servant to the loftiest noble, everyone had their own laws of etiquette, and stepping out of line for any reason could destroy a bot’s standing. If the damage was severe enough to the reputation, a bot could be entirely cast out of the Towers to fend for themselves.
Mirage was already being closely watched by his peers, and the only leeway in protocol Mirage had was when he was in Protihex; a state event in Iacon would elicit even more formalized behavior. Mirage was already skirting the line by associating openly with him and Tracks, who were just below the appropriate rank for casual interaction. Jazz’s presence and their association with him were enough to offset most of the stigma, however. To the average brand of Towers denizen, Mirage was a bit odd-no doubt because of his origins in Crystal City-but still kept well enough in line with their standards to be accepted.
Every one of those status-obsessed glitches would have blown a fuse if they’d known Mirage was down here. Blaster supposed that explained why the noblemech had steadfastly remained cloaked since they’d left Jazz’s office. But why follow them down here? Mirage had never been particularly fond of Soundwave, only aware of the mech because of the ties to him and Jazz; Soundwave certainly wasn’t worth Mirage taking a blow to his reputation.
Jazz.
It had to be Jazz.
Mirage was a known friend of Jazz, and if what was going on down here was enough to actually put a stain on Jazz’s formidable reputation, the gossips would tear Mirage apart. Being down here meant Mirage could keep an optic on Jazz and ensure that the mech didn’t do anything too damaging to either of their reputations. Blaster couldn’t help but be a little relieved about that; Jazz was a stubborn mech, and neither he nor Tracks had ever been able to sway him from a course of action once his mind was set. Prowl was one of two who could, but Prowl was no doubt where he was supposed to be instead of running all over the Coliseum. Mirage was the other. Blaster took comfort in the fact that at least someone with some fragging sense was present. Mirage wouldn’t lift a hand to assist-even if he were visible-but his mere presence would be enough to hold Jazz back from doing something completely stupid.
Blaster finished wiping away the last bit of his section, assisted by a liberal application of Tracks’ solvent, and glanced around. Jazz was gently daubing away the energon from a gash alongside Soundwave’s helm, a grim expression on his features. The bipedal set of cassetticons were busy manipulating the bottle of solvent between the two of them while the feline model leaned balanced on its hind legs and wiped at the energon stains. Blaster moved as if to help, but shrank back as one of the flight models snapped viciously at him.
So much for that approach.
Blaster gave them a moment to settle down, and then decided to ask a question no doubt weighing on both he and Jazz’s minds. “If he isn’t a meal ticket, and he isn’t your Host, what is he?”
“Who says he ain’t our Host?!”
Blaster was hardly impressed by the sudden bluster. “If he was your Host, you’d be broadcasting his ID tags, for one.” Two, Blaster mused to himself, you’d be just as bad off as Soundwave right now. Links between Host and Symbiote could be deadly when there was enough damage feedback.
“That’s just a formality!” The blue casseticon snapped.
“Cut the slag, Frenzy.” Knock Out, finally able to see enough of the actual damage, didn’t bother to look up from his cauterizing work. “Soundwave’s a convict. He isn’t allowed to take on symbionts until the terms of his sentence are met. If even then.”
An uneasy silence fell over the group of cassetticons, permeating the atmosphere with extra tension they all could honestly have done without. It was finally broken by Rumble.
“He watches out for us, even when he don’t have to. Nobody else gives a frag about us, and most of the pit bosses have just been waiting for Sounders to kick it so they can scavenge his parts for more profitable mechs. They ain’t exactly got his best interest in mind, either. So we stick together, watch each other’s back. He’s our bro.”
“Thank you.”
“What for?”
“For looking out for Soundwave.” Jazz clarified. “I’m glad someone was.”
“Yeah, well it should have been you. Great work dropping the ball on that one. So what is this anyway? Trying to work off some guilt?”
A horrified silence settled over the room at the impudent comment, and Blaster didn’t doubt for an instant that Mirage was close to fritzing over the disrespect.
These cassetticons were either completely lacking in common sense, or just flat didn't care about social convention because they were so deep into rock bottom a reprisal wouldn't affect them much anyway.
Blaster would put the entirety of his accumulated marque price on that second one.
Jazz’s gaze turned icy. “More like doing what I can to help someone that never stopped being important to me. Not that my reasons are any of your business.”
“If he was so important to ya, why’d you let the Enforcers nab him, then?”
“I hardly let them do anything. I’d already set up provisions to have Soundwave reinstated, but the Enforcers got to him first-even if he’d still been in the guild, they would’ve had authority to take him. All I could do is plea on his behalf to the Council-and I did-at great length-for all the good that did.” Jazz looked resigned. “I could have only softened the fall-Soundwave ultimately put himself in this position. I can’t make his choices for him.”
Rumble and Frenzy shared an unhappy look, and though it was clear they wanted to say more, the snap-hiss of a welder powering down focused their attention back on Knock Out.
“How’s the boss?” Frenzy demanded, climbing up to Soundwave’s still form to monitor the medic’s progress.
“Not in danger of immediately de-activating. It’s going to take more tools and time than we have now to get him back up to something resembling functioning, but Soundwave will live to see another orn.”
Jazz’s engine rumbled softly in relief. “Thank Solus.”
Blaster glanced towards the far end of the room, where Tracks (and a still cloaked Mirage) were idling. He didn’t doubt that the two were more than aware of the goings on away from them, but for formality’s sake he opened up a private comm line between the three of them.
[ Soundwave should pull through. Knock Out intends to complete the rest of the repairs once they’re back in Kaon. ]
[ I imagine the little free-loaders will be pleased. ] Mirage’s tone was ripe with disdain.
Fair enough, but…[ I don’t think they’re really free-loaders. Not so much. ]
Disbelief flooded the comm line, buoying along Tracks’ incredulous scoff.
[ I’m serious! You can’t look at them and not see how similar it is to Jazz and Soundwave. Jazz picked Soundwave up off the streets when they were younglings, Soundwave starts looking out for a group of younglings off the street? ]
[ Jazz was in a considerably better state than Soundwave, but let the mech trade on his capabilities in order to better himself. Soundwave was a free-loader himself, Blaster. No matter how you try to clean it up, the mech brought nothing to the table when Jazz found him. Nothing but problems. In a few vorns time, Jazz will be relieved to have done with him. ]
Blaster would have said more, but was stopped by Tracks excusing himself from the conversation due to being contacted by one of his guild members. Blaster glanced back over at Jazz, who carefully wiped a smudge of oil from Soundwave’s visor while the cassetticons…were siphoning energon from the deactivated bodies around them into a storage cube.
Sweet. Primus.
He turned away, focusing back on Jazz, who was attempting to clean some of the energon off of his person to little avail. “Can’t you at least get that chip deactivated now? While he’s out?”
“Because that’s easy.” Knock Out grumbled quietly.
“You were planning to do it anyway. Just…do what you can for him. Everything you can.”
Tracks voice cut across the room then, halting conversation. Orders, really. “We need to go. We are becoming missed, mechs, and we’ve all appearances to keep. You can’t afford to be here any longer Alpha Maestro.”
Jazz frowned. “But Soundwave-“
“Will have to fend for himself now. You’ve done enough. More than enough.”
Jazz got a stubborn look on his face, but was cut short by private comm from Mirage.
[ You’ve carried Soundwave on your back since we were all younglings. You should have left him on his own long before now. This is out of your hands now! Don’t let him drag you down with him, Jazz! You have your own duties to see to beyond this. ]
Jazz was silent a long moment, then stood to rise, deftly slipping a small data chip into a crevice behind Soundwave’s visor. It would not be the first time he’d done such a thing; it was, however, likely the last.
Jazz pinned Knock Out with a solemn look. “I want your best.” Jazz didn’t wait for a reply; just took one last lingering look at the mech who’d been the closest thing he’d had to a brother, and walked off.
Blaster paused long enough to toss a credit chip to the feline casseticon. It was nowhere near as large as Jazz’s, but still valuable in its own right. “Take care of him. Yourselves too.”
“They will.” Knock Out murmured darkly, trading glares with the aerial models.
************************ ***************************** **********************
Mirage dropped cloak once they were closer to the public areas of the Coliseum, and recoiled as he got a good look at Jazz and Blaster in decent lighting. “Primus, you two are a mess!”
Tracks grimaced as in distaste as he took in the streaks of dried energon and crude oil over the two musicians’ frames. It might have been forgivable on anyone else, but not for bots of their station. Such an obvious state of disarray would spark questions and rumors none of them needed at the moment. Track’s cast about for a second before spotting one of his guild members carrying a tray laden with an assortment of drinks and confections, no doubt refreshments for the bots he had stationed in Incandesca’s parlor that were unable to leave their work areas.
The young femme hurried over after catching his glance and Tracks subtly motioned to Jazz and Blaster. [ Dear spark, I need you to take a fall. ]
Orders received, she adjusted her graceful gait to one more clumsy, taking on the struggling movement of a bot faltering under too large of a weight. A sway this way then that, and she stumbled forward, launching the contents of her tray all over Jazz and Blaster.
Mirage, quite familiar with the trick, was quick to cause a scene, squawking in horror. “Look what you’ve done! And all over the Alpha Maestro!” The femme began to stammer apologies, obviously panicking.
“Now, now…I’m sure it was just an accident. Come, Alpha Maestro; we’ll have my personal entourage get you and yours all cleaned up.” He spared quelling look at the femme before him. “With us, if you please. I’m *sure* your superiors will want to know about this!” The show now over with relatively no fuss, the bots watching began to dissipate, going back to their own diversions.
“Well played, sweetspark!” Tracks fished out a credit chip and passed it to her once the crowd was sufficiently thinned out. “Grab another tray and meet us back at the parlor; work on pooling all the information from the last, oh, two joors or so and bring me up to speed when you arrive.”
“Of course, Savant Tracks!” The young femme dipped a graceful courtesy and swiftly dipped back into the crowd, weaving through them all with careless ease.
Jazz and Blaster, meanwhile, traded long-suffering looks with each other as Mirage ushered them off.
“Tracks, what the frag!?”
Tracks waved off Blaster’s exclamation. “Oh please. You both are filthy and reek of the lower levels. This gives us time and cause to get you straightened up without undue attention. Ah, here we are!” Tracks strode into the parlor space accorded to his guild as if he owned it-and perhaps he did, technically speaking. “Firestar! Firestar! Priority one!”
An immaculately groomed femme painted in a daring blend of red and burnt orange looked up from the color chart she was organizing. “What in Solus’ name are you-” She stopped short, taking in the appearance of the two mechs between Tracks and Mirage. “What did you do to my work!?”
************** *********************** ***************** ***************************
Startled, D-16 took in the crowds around him as he finished off his latest-his last-opponent. The war drone now so many scattered pieces across the arena, he allowed himself to pay attention to the roaring chant of the crowd.
Megatronus? Everyone knew of the Dark Prime, of the Fallen. Megatronus was the looming specter of a thousand horror stories, the cautionary tale told to wayward sparklings to keep them in line. But there were other stories. Stories of unyielding strength. Of stubborn refusal to bow to another’s whims. Megatronus had been many things, but ultimately all agreed upon one thing: of all the Thirteen, of all Cybertronians, Megatronus had been the one to carve his own destiny.
D-16 had to consider the point: he had done no less. Had he not defied his own fate, decreed from the moment he emerged from the Well and transformed into an excavation tank? They had told him to mine, and he refused. Here he was, one of Cybertron’s strongest warriors, risen up from the lowest of castes to stand in Iacon’s oldest and grandest landmark with the adoration of the crowd behind him? Oh, he was no Prime, but in this moment he didn’t doubt the crowds held him in equal favor.
And why shouldn’t he be Prime? This Prime was ancient and remote, uncaring of anything except his precious order and his own power. He could lead the way-he had risen up, surely he could guide others along the same path. Cybertron deserved change, needed it, and much the same way he had defied his own personal fate he could turn Cybertron away from the grim destiny it faced along Sentinel Prime’s decreed path.
Megatronus. He was strong enough to walk this path, to be the agent of change. He was more than strong enough, but he would not do it with a dead mech’s name, or the failed legacy attached to it. Megatronus had defied fate, had refused to kowtow to his brethren, but he had also turned his back on Cybertron. D-16 felt something begin to solidify within his mind, a path and a goal start to form. A purpose blooming within his spark. No, he would not be Megatronus, but he would be like him. Better than him. He would take time to think, and then he would lead Cybertron to a destiny it deserved; he would make them strong, and save them.
He charged his fusion cannon up once more, the lovingly maintained weapon thrumming with power and glowing orange with deadly energy.
“I! AM! MEGATRON!”
He fired, gray armor reflecting the vibrant glow from the resulting explosion. The crowd’s roar dimmed, then doubled in intensity as his name-his name-was shouted from even the highest rafters.
“MEGATRON!”
“MEGATRON!”
“MEGATRON!”
D-16-Megatron-raised the arm bearing his fusion cannon high in triumph as the weight of something like destiny settled on his shoulders.
Yesss.
All hail Megatron.
******* ******* ******* ******* ******* *******