Chapter Text
It was as clear as the reflecting lights of Iacon, in the obsidian giants that were their skyscrapers, that Orion-, Optimus needed a break.
As much as the Mech had changed, rapidly so, Jazz had known him for far too long to be fooled. Perhaps D-16 had known him the longest but Jazz had come in at a close second, like so many other times in his life. Their little life as miners had not allowed for much, and in it he had seen Orion work, laugh, stumble, fall. He had seen him try and fail and try again. He had seen him die.
Primus, had he seen him die.
There was perhaps no other bot left on Cybertron that knew.....had known Orion Pax like Jazz had.
So when their fellow bots saw their new leader and chalked his heavy pede steps and low and careful speech up to the gentle grace of a Prime, Jazz knew better. He saw weariness in the slope of his spinal strut, saw the faint traces of exhaustion and the way they dimmed the light in Optimus's optics, the lines of worry that slowly but steadily left their ageing dents on his faceplate, wether he wore the mask or not. Jazz knew.
The Bot was in the process of falling apart at his transformation seams.
There used to be 13 Primes leading Cybertron, and even then the war with the Quintessons had been a brutal battle. One that had stained their home with shed energon and tears of bots long forgotten. Now, 50 stellarcycles later, looming over them all once again, was a shadow of dread. Cast over the surface and bearing the foreboding shape of the Quintessons mothership. This was the weight that lasted on Optimus's shoulders: Facing an inevitable war that threatened to break out any day now. Sentinel had perished and alongside him the deal he had once struck with their colonizers, for all the power over Cybertron.
Any day now, until their own energon would join that of their predecessors. And who knew, wether they would be sucessfull in liberating themselves, and create a future where no Bot would have to be bound by the shackles of opression, or if they would join together in the Allspark, lost to the oblivion of a universe that would likely not remember them.
Jazz didn't regret what had happened to Sentinel, although he was careful to keep this thought to himself. What he did regret was what had come after. A nation, a people torn in two and thrown to the ruins, much like their false idol. He sometimes wondered where Megatron was now. He made sure not to talk about this either.
There were many things he didn't talk about.
"-update on the scouts we've sent out to the surface. Jazz?" a swift blow to his shin plate from under the table pulled him back to the present as he had let a few nanokliks pass with no response. He saw Prowl shifting a little in his seat and everyones optics on himself.
Jazz leaned back in his chair, having previously rested his faceplate on one servo with his elbow joint propped up on the table, and opened up the report files as nonchalantly as he could with a theatrical flick of a digit, giving no reaction to the kick or anything else amiss.
From a bright blue light, a 3-Dimensional map of the surface over Iacon manifested infront of them. Small dots marked the position of their scouts. Pictures and holovids of the scenery hovered above but only few held mere glimpses of possible Quintesson activity.
A brief flicker of a holovid portraying B-127 attempting to mount a cyber deer, only to fall off and land on his aft appeared. Jazz quickly swiped it away. How did that get in here?
"So far our scouts have covered the surface area 'round Iacons coordinates but no Quintesson activity. Confirms the information we found in Sentinels private notes that schedules the meeting for the next lunar cycle. But If ya ask me, we cannot rule out the possibility that they got a permanent residence somewhere on Cybertron 'til we've covered more ground. I suggest we order our guys back for now to refuel and restock and send out scanner drones in the meantime."
He accentuated the last few words with a slow tilt of his helm towards Optimus and a trustful glance. No smile, not yet. This was serious buisness. He had to sell the lie that he had been listening as best as he could.
Optimus nodded thoughtfully and Jazz sent a thankful prayer to Primus for gifting his processor with improv skills.
"Very well. This means that our current time schedule stays the same. I will let Bee and the others know myself. I think this should be all for now."
Optimus briefly looked over the small gathering of Bots, their gazes fixed on him in quiet expectancy, before shifting just a little and clearing his voice box,
"I conclude this meeting for uhh...concluded."
A ghost of a smile broke free and flickered across Jazz's face. There it was. Just a sliver of that old, endearing awkwardness. Chairs creaked and pedes shuffled, followed closely by the low murmurs of conversation between the bots of Optimus inner circle. Jazz only listened half heartidly. Nothing particular of note, mostly just variants of "I'm starving", "Don't forget to file your reports on time" and "So what are you doing after this?".
He waited outside, casually leaning against the wall next to the door panel, nodding and waving at the Bots that passed him, all looking tired and ready for some desperately needed and always too short rest and recreation.
Wheeljack fist bumped him as he exited with a grin and a quiet "Nice save back there," Jazz smiled back but decided not to aknowledge what he meant. Just in case.
Prowl was the last to leave the room, aside from Optimus himself. Jazz only caught a glimpse of him, still hunched over the holodesk. There wasn't anything unusual about it if he was being honest. These days he always stayed behind.
Once Prowl spotted him, he walked over and quietly settled beside him, crossed arms and donning a familiar expression of neutrality that usually meant displeasure. For a moment neither said anything.
"You know a simple nudge woulda also done the trick?"
Prowl ex-vented with what Jazz could have sworn, sounded like a scoff,
"Oh don't be such a sparkling. And besides I saved you. Elita would have kicked your aft if she had noticed you weren't listening during a meeting again."
"I was listening....for most of the time"
He observed from the edge of his visor that Prowl raised an optical ridge at him but ultimately shook his helm and sighed. A clear sign he had decided to let whatever argument was about to unfold go. Perhaps it was obvious that they were both far more tired than any of them let on.
"We still on for Old Macs tonight?" looking to the side, Prowl changed the topic, his posture relaxing, if only a little bit.
Their short nights out was an old routine, back from when they had still been mere miners with no idea what the future held for them. However, with events transpiring the way they had, slowly and surely the number of Bots at their usual table had dwindled down to just the two of them, sometimes three if Arcee was feeling up to the task of enduring their never ending bickering.
Managing to go out, let alone scheduling their little evenings of drinks and conversation on the regular, had proven to be nothing short of a herculean task, maintained mostly by Jazz's efforts alone. Ever the social butterfly.
"Wouldn't miss it for a thing," Jazz flashed a bright smile that bounced right off of Prowls unimpressed faceplate with a metaphorical thud.
The Mech merely pointed his thumb at the empty hallway from over his shoulder,
"Alright then let's go. I have to warn you though, I can't stay for long today," he pushed himself off of the wall, then looked expectantly at Jazz, who was yet to move from his spot.
"Actually," Jazz hesitated, "you go ahead. I´ll catch up with you in a klik. I still got..." he stole a glance beside them, into the large gathering room where Optimus was still sitting, speaking quietly into his comm.
"something to discuss with our big guy," the tone in his voice was uncharactaristically careful but Prowl understood immediately. Mabye to Jazz's dismay, because his friend just sighed and shook his helm once more.
"You're still trying to get him to come along? Jazz, he's declined like 5 times now. Don't you think it is time we take the hint?"
Jazz shrugged lightly, "Ya know me. I never learn."
This was a lie. Of course he knew that Prowl did have a point. Everytime he had only so much as suggested that their friend tag along, Optimus had always found a reason to say no. Each more understandable than the last. And though he would rather be caught by Starscream himself than admit it, it ground Jazz's usually unbreakable nerve wiring into fine copper dust.
The mech liked a challenge, evidently. Otherwise he could never be friends with half the Bots he knew. Comraderie was a given among Miners, a cheerful disposition less so. He had always been good at coaxing people out of their shell. He was fun, inviting, some might even say charming.
Or annoyingly persistent, if you asked Prowl specifically that is.
Either way, he had a gift for people. They lowered their guards around him, let themselves be seen, if only for a moment. And right now as he was, Jazz yearned for nothing more than to see his friend again. The kind spark he knew and recognized, that still had to beat, concealed behind their oh-so-precious Matrix.
So much had changed. At the very least, this could still be the same.
First step: He had to get Optimus out of there.
"Alright then. But don't get all down on me later when he says no. Which he will." Prowl retreated coolly and gave Jazz a quick wave of his servo, once he was already down the hallway. Jazz didn't bother with a response, just turned around and slid quietly through the half open door.
With everyone gone the room was quiet, save for the low, persistent hum of dimmed fluorescents above and barely conceivable city noises that had slipped their way inside, despite the best efforts of the buildings massive walls cageing in every sound from ever escaping.
Optimus hadn't moved much during their conversation outside. He was sitting in the large conference chair that stood along the center line of the room, right at the head of their table as was to be expected of a Prime.
Turned halfway towards facing the panoramic window, the dense, misty glow of Iacons city skyline creeped from behind his darkened profile, framing his silhouette in a neon Halo.
He was yet to notice Jazz's presence, not that he was trying to conceal it. He decided to watch him for a moment as he inched closer. Optimus was hunched over a little, his large servo on his arm, watching an all too familiar holovid with a low chuckle. Jazz smiled
"You should see the one they made after that. Little guy actually manages to hold on for a klik."
Optimus flinched and the holovid apruptly fizzled out as he turned, stance tense enough that regret came washing over Jazz for having disturbed this rare moment of peace.
Then Optimus recognized Jazz and his posture immediately relaxed back to a slight droop of his shoulder armor, that still did little to detract from his newly imposing height. The edges of his optics crinkled into a warm smile. His battle mask retreated almost as fast as it had snapped into place with a little swooshing noise, and all of a sudden, things returned to normal. As if nothing had happened.
Jazz was sitting on the desk now, chassis turned to his friend and a servo idly sliding along the edge of the metal. His legs were crossed.
"Jazz!" Optimus greeted kindly. He folded his servos over each other and leaned toward him in an unmistakeably affable gesture. His movements were slow, gentle and kept to a minimum. When had he become so calm?
"Do you need something?"
"I actually do yeah," in one swift motion, Jazz swung himself off of the table and strode over to where Optimus was sitting. There was no time to play coy. He only had one shot at this, and the line was clear and his target in sight.
Time to make this count.
The Prime observed his movements, unsuspecting and comfortable enough not to shrink away when Jazz boldly propped himself against the Prime's chair and leaned foward, one servo on his cocked hip and his most dashing smile on his faceplate. So far so good.
"Drinks at Maccadam's with Prowl and yours truly. How 'bout it eh?"
Optimus smile did not fade but Jazz could see the dreaded guilt in his Primes optics approaching from a mile away. His expression softened and his servos rubbed against one another as if cold.
He turned away from Jazz's visored gaze beholding him and lowered his helm.
"Ah"
There it was.
As if to make matters worse and clearly in a misguided attempt to let him down easy, Optimus's voice sounded gentler than before. Jazz internally braced himself, to try and not let his carefully constructed bravado falter. He wasn't disappointed, he reminded himself. He was fine. This was fine.
"I'm sorry Jazz but not tonight. I am...there's still alot I need to take care of. I need to check on our communications with the southern supply line, review the transcript of our last meeting and--"
Jazz interrupted him with a quick, barked laughter, he hoped sounded genuine, and playfully nudged Optimus shoulder plates. Better save them both the embarrasment of watching the Prime scramble to come up with yet another excuse, he thought.
"Ever the busy bot eh? Where was that additude when we were miners? Don't worry about it. I'll drink for the both of us." He backed away, making sure to add a casual stride to his steps, determined to commit and sell the illusion of unbotheredness. He halted briefly when Optimus called out to him.
"Mabye next time."
Already standing half way out the door, Jazz swung his helm around to glance back at Optimus, halo and all. The edges of his mouth burned, as he stretched them into his usual smile.
"Yeah sure!"
-
These days It was hard to forget that Iacon was a city experiencing the unmistakeable twilight of peace. One could hear it in the echoing groans of the freshly abandoned Energon mines that had quickly become hiding spots for a many outcast. See it in the anxious flickering of buisness signs and street lights that illuminated uncharacteristically empty streets. Feel it in the hushed pedesteps and nervously shifting optics of the few Bots that did roam them.
But if there was one place up for the task, it was Maccadam's Old Oil house.
It's transluscent sign, crafted from long discolored glass, tinted the outside front in a gentle, orange glow that swallowed and fizzled out the dark blue shadows of the night. Struggling to keep it at bay. Struggling, but always managing. The Glyphs for "Oil" hung slightly crooked, virtue of a cracked hinge nobody had ever bothered to fix, and dangling dangerously toward an unceremonious plummet to the ground. That is, if you didn't know that it had been doing so for vorns on end.
Gusts of wind or tremors below occasionally picked it up with a creak and let it waggle from side to side, as if waving.
There was no line infront, there never was. Muffled chatter spilled out from within, became louder and clearer whenever the door swung open and let a passer-by catch a glimpse of the establishments rustic (and rusty) heart, before quickly having their view blocked by a Bouncer escorting a rowdy drunkard outside or by a stumbling couple, lost in each other and ready to take what was left of the night and then some.
Inside, the air was stale but warm. A pair of musicians were in the middle of their second set. Largely overshadowed by the oil and highgrade that passed over the tables with a practiced swiftness, same as conversation did.
It was a slow day. The gentle electro bass ran weak musical laps around the raspy voice of an alto singer. Turnaround after turnaround bled into each other to create a seemingly neverending loop of crowd pleasing songs. They were alright, Jazz thought. A little stiff. Given the chance he probably would have done a better job.
He sat in their usual booth, forehelm pressed on the dented and stained table, surrounded by empty cubes of far too many drinks. He had kept his promise to Optimus, that was for sure.
Prowl sat across from him, holding and swirling a cube of Praxian highgrade, a new favourite of his. His optics were half closed, albeit open enough to shoot Jazz a look of judgemental amusement he could technically not see but definitely felt. Jazz groaned.
"The mech's killing me Prowl. Me and himself."
"I told you he wouldn't come," Prowl simply shrugged, observing the singer with feigned interest. Really just needing a direction to look toward. The night was too old, and they had done this song and dance one too many times before.
"That's not the problem," Jazz rose his helm and flopped it over to the side, cheek now pressed against table, causing Prowls faceplate scrunch up in visible disgust.
His arms stretched out infront, gingerly reaching over to get his servos on a tempting can of half drunken fuel, right before Prowl snatched it away and wordlessly set it farther aside.
He huffed and pushed himself back and up, sunk into worn out mesh cushions, went slack once again and groaned a second time. For show? Perhaps a little.
"Would be one thing, If I knew he was takin' breaks otherwise but he's not. I'm willing to bet my magnets that he's still up in that empty room workin his aft off. It's not healthy, mech."
"I don't really want your magnets," Prowl mused. Somewhere just around the corner a glass cube shattered on the ground, followed by a young waiters startled yelp and the hollering laughter of a group of mechs one booth over. Jazz's dermas twitched briefly into a frown. A red mini-bot hurried past them, rag in hand.
"I just think,--"
"That's news to me."
Prowl lifted the cube back to his lips, smirk half concealed by the glass rim and glowing magenta liquid inside, sweet but potent. He knew Jazz was furrowing his optical ridges without having to look under his visor. He took a self-satisfied sip.
"You're an aft, you know that?" Jazz spat. On any other day he would have had something better to say. Some kind of retort, astute observation or clever come back.
But tonight his usually well kept about wits had taken their exit, somewhere along the road to Old Mac's and left him a tired, worn thin mech, with the low buzz of highgrade in his systems doing him no favour in concealing it.
Prowl set his cube aside and turned to face Jazz. His expession shifted into an unexpected look of sympathy.
The waiter passed their table again, rag wet and stained.
"War is coming Jazz. Any day now."
"Ya think I don't know that?" he hadn't intended for his words to come out in a scoff. They did any way. If it bothered Prowl he didn't let on as he continued,
"We're all scrambling to prepare as best we can but let's be honest, we're at every possible disadvantage that there is," His seat creaked and groaned from the movement as Prowl leaned closer, as if to emphasize, beg Jazz to listen this once by allowing for a rare closing of space between them. Despite the EM field crackling expectantly, Jazz didn't lean in, didn't reach out. His visor darkened cerulean and his optics underneath felt dull and heavy.
"We cannot afford to loose any more than we already have. Neither resources, or Bots, nor time. Optimus knows that, so he does what needs to be done. He is a Prime after all."
"Not you too!" Jazz groaned, "Why's everyone suddenly actin' like he's not one of us anymore?"
"Is he?"
The question hung in the air like thick wafts of smoke that just would not dissipate, and wether they could admit it or not, it had done so for a long time.
Not just between them, as wishful thinking would have it, but everyone they knew, that remembered Orion Pax. It had lingered, a silent, suffocating thought. Never in a form more corporeal than pensive glances and uncomfortable silence. Now Prowl had given it words and suddenly there was no more denying the fire of doubt that gnawed at their sparks.
"He died..." Prowl said quietly.
"I know. I saw it." Jazz rose and reached over the table to take the cube of highgrade Prowl had taken away from him earlier. This time there was no attempt at stopping him, not even a disapproving glance. Jazz slumped back, nibbling more than drinking.
"Nobody knows what happened down there when he was...Bots have changed over less."
Jazz shook his helm, "Not him. Not like that."
"What is going on with you?" it was rare for Prowl to sound genuinely upset.
The Bot had always possessed a muted personality, preferring to limit his expressions of emotion to a varying mix of amusement, annoyance and most often, dry sarcasm.
Jazz had gotten used to it over time. Had learned the language and how to speak it. This however, was unfamiliar territory. Prowls voice pitched higher, truly exhasperated. Jazz would have really preferred the dry sarcasm right about now.
"You're always on my case about how I should be more flexible. Now, when we're trying to make the best out of what we have, suddenly you're the one who refuses to adapt."
It would be so easy to get up and leave, Jazz entertained the idea inside his head. End this conversation with a simple concession and an apology he wouldn't even have to be sincere about. Pay, go home and play it all off as drunk stupor, should Prowl ask him about it the morning after.
The Bots a booth over had begun to sing along to the musicians. They were painfully off rythm. Slow on the uptake, no doubt curtesy of the highgrade spilled around their intakes. They held onto each other, arms locked in a swaying chain. Their glasses on the table shook a little from the irregular stomping of their pedes.
He really was too intoxicated to fight with Prowl. Tired too. Was any of this even worth it? Not for a mech that wasn't even there with them...
The Electro Bass stumbled and missed a note, right into the chorus.
"Cause It's just too damm convenient," Jazz uttered aloud. Apparently sunk cost fallacy did not apply when arguing with friends.
"The Mech grew a few feet, got a new frame and a fancy title, so we're just supposed to be pretendin' that it's not him anymore? For what? So we don't have to feel bad about puttin' all that weight on him? I'll pass."
"What makes you so sure that he hasn't?"
Prowl could easily make the argument, that technically alot more had happened to Orion than just an upgrade and a promotion, but something else had caught his interest.
Drunk and upset as he was, Jazz could tell by the way his gaze sharpened and narrowed in. On what he didn't know yet, but one thing was for sure, he wouldn't let himself falter under the inquisitive stare. He sat up, just enough to go from slacking to seemingly relaxed. If this was his chance to force Prowl to hear him out...
"Look, I've known Orion longer than any of you combined. Remember the time, when Arcees jackpack went haywire and knocked right into his back struts?"
The thoughtful nod from Prowl let Jazz know that he did, and furthermore that he was on the right track. So he continued,
"I kept tellin aou all that he was actin' weird afterwards, but nobody wanted to listen. Right up until his right optic blew out, from of all the charge that couldn't circulate, because of the dent that had squashed his damm spinal cables."
Jazz pointed at his visor for emphasis and Prowls derma drew into a squeamish frown. He remembered the way Orion had turned at him that day. His smile reassuring, right before the flying sparks, a putric smell of smoke that had filled the air around them, and all the other wonderful things that came with fried circuits and a resulting system crash.
"The Doc did have a field day with this one."
"Point is," Jazz gestured with the flat of his servo, pointing at Prowl, "I know the Guy. I can tell when he's puttin' on an act."
Prowl tapped his index digit on the table, expression introspective, rather than scrutinizing. It appeared to Jazz as though he was finally considering his words with the actual gravity rather than dismissal. Though he still wasn't foolish enough to believe that he had convinced him so easily. Drawing Prowl into the orbit of his conviction would take a little more than that. Jazz waited for a response, watching him slowly take another sip from his cube and pressing his derma into a thin line.
"And you're sure he is right now."
"I've been watching his every move, Prowl. One hundred percent."
That gentle inflection in Prowls voice returned,
"Sometimes, we look at something so closely we start--"
"Don't you give me the "seein' things that aren't there"-speech," Jazz did not even give him the courtesy of another word, before he interrupted him, "I'm not in denial Prowl, I'm worried, for my friend."
At that, Prowl sighed, leaned back in his seat and began rubbing supposedly soothing circles over the spot where his temples met the edge of his helm.
The sweet trap of the highgrade had fully sunken it's dripping claws in him it seemed. There were still questions he could ask of course. There always were, but he looked at Jazz in the warm, orange light and half shadows, looked at the glasses, the stains on the table, the scratches, the empty seats around them...He closed his eyes and vented in deeply.
"Well If you ask me, the best thing we can do to help him, is do our job and do it well. Take as much of the load off as we can, and leave him to handle his own. If he couldn't, the Matrix wouldn't have chosen him."
Memories flickered, in a bright purple flash of a far away fusion cannon. The tiny speck of a Mech falling, scattered pieces of metal surrounding him.
"We have to trust in that." The singer bellowed out the last few notes of her solo with a vibrato that signified finality, electro bass having seized to play a while ago to grant the low droning voicework of the alto it's flickering spot light.
A middlingly enthusiastic crowd cracked into polite applause, and the two musicians stood servo in servo, bowing twice, before retreating to the bottom of their one step stage, drinks already waiting.
Chatter returned to it's regular volume. Jazz was looking at his hands.
"I trust him," he began, "but I also see him. And I know that the Mech's one blown fuse and a skip away from an early grave. Again!"
For the first time since the conversation had begun, Jazz looked directly at Prowl. A jaded kind of resolve reverberated in his voice,
"Ya say we gotta try and take off the load? Well mabye this is my way of doin' just that."
Prowl didn't say anything for a while, only beheld the Mech infront of him with the same intense scrutiny, one would a nearly completed puzzle or an almost promising hand of cards.
Then, something passed over his faceplate, fleetingly like the trailing light of a meteor, but Jazz caught it. Something akin to recognition, though of what, he could only guess.
A moment more passed in silence, then Prowl seemed come to whatever conclusion there was to be made, one Jazz didn't expect to be privy to yet, and reached out once more for the rest of his drink, finishing it with one gulp and setting the empty cube down. Digits pressing onto the glassen edge with a steely determination.
"Well in that case, you're going to have to change up your strategy because this, " he gestured around to the rows of chairs, occupied by Bots of all kinds, locking elbows and spilling highgrade over the bars counter, where a displeased Bartender slowly shook his helm, though unable to hide just the tiniest hints of a smile, " Isn't working."
Jazz nodded, "Might have to come up with a new plan, yeah. Improvise a little bit."
"That, you're good at," Prowl leaned back in his seat.
With the fire reduced to a more manageable smoulder, the atmosphere around them cleared up a little, almost back to the pleasant buzz Old Mac's was so beloved for.
Jazz tried to fumble his way out of the numb, prickling discomfort, he still couldn't help but feel, back into a mischievous grin. His right servo grazing lightly against his bumper, right where his spark laid underneath. He gasped playfully,
"Prowl! That a compliment, I just heard?"
The mech shrugged,
"Sure, if you think not planning scrap and just pulling ideas out of your aft, is a trait worth complimenting."
Whatever things remained to be said or discussed after that were folded and neatly tucked away in the back of their minds. They would unpack them surely. But that was for another day. Right now, they let the moment fizzle out in the comfortable silence of their company and that of the empty seats and half full glasses, that Prowl had promised himself today, if he remembered correctly, he would not stick around long for. Then Jazz suddenly snorted, stifling a laugh,
"If you'd told me a stellarcycle ago, that I'd be breaking my processor over Orion Pax overworking himself, I'd have thought you'd gotten hit over the helm by Darkwing one too many times."
Prowl returned a low chuckle. "True. But really, It would be nice if we could go one lunar cycle without him dying. At the very least."
His gaze turned exhausted, his voice a worn sigh, "I don't think I have another one in me."
To that, they both joined in laughter. The break had ended, and the musicians had returned to the stage to perform their final set of the evening.
The Altos voice donned a more gentle inflection, reminiscent of the music of Rodion's higher end night life. A simple melodic pattern and a swinging, swaying rythm, with the occasional vocal flourish toward the end. Perfect for a nice, intimate dance under purple crystal ceiling lights. He recognized it immediately, remembering similar songs playing on the tossed out radio Orion and D-16 had helped him rebuild, what now felt like an eternity ago.
The electro bass picked up, to join the singer, and Jazz brought his cube up to his dermas, thinking that they actually weren't half bad.