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The walls practically drip with money, silver and gold lining the frames of oil paintings, all lit up by the glow of a radiant chandelier that hangs from the center of the impossibly tall ceiling. Near the ceiling, the tops of the walls are lined with glass in coppery-golden frames, arranged in soldered patterns like an artistic depiction of stars in supernova. The ballroom, despite its size, feels almost claustrophobic with the sheer number of guests and suitresses crammed in this evening—the evening of Prince Megatronus’s coming-of-age into becoming Megatron, ruler of the kingdom of Kaon.
Colors swirl as people mingle, guests dressed in fitted tuxedos and suitresses in flowing gowns, blooming like flowers under the light that bathes them in a warm glow. Jazz plucks a thin flute of a mysterious bubbly drink from a passing server and takes a little sip—hm, champagne. She only takes tiny sips at a time; after all, she can’t forget the reason she’s here at all.
Prowl approaches her from behind, coming to rest a hand on her forearm to alert her of her presence, though Jazz had been aware from ten seconds ago. Prowl’s authoritative pace, punctuated by the click of her shoes on the polished floors, is unmistakable.
“The prince has yet to enter,” says Prowl, her voice dropped low and her face kept neutral. “He is expected to arrive soon, however, accompanied by additional guards as well as Orion Pax and Soundwave.”
Jazz slightly raises an eyebrow. Intriguing companions, though she can’t be surprised. Those two have always been the closest to Megatronus—or Megatron, should she say? No, that name is saved for the end of the ceremony. She swirls her drink and rolls her shoulders back in a façade of relaxation. She’s almost disappointed as the weight of Prowl’s gloved hand slides off her forearm. “So we have time. Have some fun, Prowler. Can’t be on the job all the time, anyway.”
Prowl gives her an incredulous stare, to which Jazz cracks a grin. “I know, what an idea,” says Jazz, tilting her head as her smile widens. She takes the time to appreciate Prowl’s gown—off-the-shoulder, snow white with a silken layer of blood red underneath, only visible when she moves. Wheeljack has done a convincing job of making it elegant and functional.
“Jazz, we should be keeping watch,” says Prowl.
“Resistance is futile,” says Jazz, taking a hold of Prowl’s hand and tugging at it. She slips the flute in her hand onto a nearby table for a server to whisk away, her chunky gold rings clinking against the glass. “There’s no way we can miss the Prince’s entry, anyway. Kaon is all about their grandiose announcements.”
With a sigh (and a hidden quirk of her lips—Jazz is perceptive enough to notice that much), Prowl allows herself to be led to the line of snacks and tables. Various suitresses have lined themselves along the wall, waiting for the event to truly begin, though others were making themselves comfortable in the center of the room, socializing with those they knew.
Several celebrity racers have made themselves at home by one of the tall scalloped pillars, marble the color of ivory and cream. Knock Out of Velocitron pops a biscuit into her mouth as she chats with Mirage of Iacon, the former in a sleek, glimmering dress with a short, crimson red train trailing behind her and the latter in a slim navy gown that fades to peachy tones at the bottom, like an upside-down glass of champagne.
“I’m just saying—you’d be welcome into our quarters if you were to accept,” purrs Knock Out, patting Mirage just below the collarbone, fingers making contact with the exposed neckline. “Breakdown and I are ... open.” With that, she spins on her heel and beckons for Breakdown to follow from where he had been listening in on their conversation. Breakdown, in a subtly striped suit, comes at her beckon to take his place beside her as they fade into the crowd. Mirage remains standing where she was, frozen, color rising to her face.
“Jazz,” calls Hot Rod, waving over from where she is speaking to Blurr of Ibex, a familiar face only from advertisements and magazine covers. A tier one racer. Surprisingly (but also characteristically), Hot Rod is wearing a velvety magenta tuxedo and a golden yellow tie rather than a long gown. “Have you met Blurr yet? Surely you’ve heard of him, everyone has—”
Jazz drags Prowl along behind her as she makes her way toward Hot Rod—a tier three racer, not the best of friends with Jazz (yet) but good enough to speak to each other over the phone once every week or two. They’d met at a party somewhere in downtown Polyhex and exchanged phone numbers, promising to find each other again sometime in the future.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Blurr,” says Jazz, reaching forward for a handshake, bangles and chains jingling as they slide along her wrist. Blurr meets her in the middle, clasping firmly and giving a shake before releasing again.
“Of course. Jazz, as Hot Rod mentioned?” replies Blurr. His sharp features are even more clear-cut up close, and Jazz remembers a magazine she saw a while back on someone’s lawn: Featuring Blurr of Ibex, tenth-time champion of the Ibex Cup! “And, uh, who is this with you?”
“Prowl of Praxus,” Prowl introduces stiffly, her handshake with Blurr as brief and clipped as her syllables tend to be. Blurr simply smiles, dazzling and practiced.
“Accompanying me,” says Jazz, easily, “though of course we’re both here as suitresses.”
“Of course,” Hot Rod says distractedly. “Say, do either of you know when Megatronus is to enter? As a guest, I’m not very concerned with the quest of vying for his hand, but I am curious. It’s been quite a while without any appearance from him ... or his company.”
“Not quite sure,” answers Jazz, shrugging. “I’ve been told it’s simply ‘later on in the event.’ I suppose it’s for the dramatic quality.” Hot Rod laughs at that, and Blurr smiles again. Jazz thinks for a moment that something is off, as if someone is watching her, but the feeling soon disappears as she shakes off her nerves. The prince isn’t even here, and she’s already nervous? Not a good sign. It’s better to get herself a little more into the groove before things really start to go down.
“Accompany me to the floor?” asks Jazz, turning to Prowl. She turns back to Blurr and Hot Rod, waving her farewells. “Sorry, folks, better be off. Catch you later.”
As the two make their way to the center of the room, the grand doors at the head of the room slowly turn open, a beam of light focusing on the doorway. Through it steps the regal Prince Megatronus, dressed in a rich dark purple with sliver pins on his tie and matching buttons on his sleeves and blazer. He has a cape pinned to his shoulders as well, reaching down to the backs of his calves. To his right stands Soundwave, veiled in white and drenched in royal blue, dandelion yellow peeking out from under her gown’s layers and ruby red pendant hanging from around her neck like a watchful eye. To his left stands Orion Pax, wearing a simple navy tuxedo with a red bow tie, though his black shoes are polished to a shine and their buckle, Jazz knows, is engraved with Kaonite patterns to match the occasion. Orion had been so excited to share about the custom buckle he’d ranted for at least five or ten minutes straight.
“Welcome, esteemed guests of Prince Megatronus’s coming-of-age ball,” a deep voice with a roughness typical to Kaon announces—Megatronus’s predecessor, the current king of Kaon, Jazz realizes. “The prince has now entered the scene. May the true heart of the festivities come to begin!”
Megatronus begins to make his way down the stairs, Soundwave and Orion keeping at pace just a step behind, and Jazz imagines taking a photo of the moment for a second—cream marble stairs, golden-brass handrail, a tall, patterned window above the doorway. Not because of Megatronus, no, but because of little Orion, Jazz’s dear friend and questionable decision-maker, walking there as one of Megatronus’s chosen company.
It was only too bad that Megatronus wouldn’t be making it much further than this night.
Jazz absently watches the guards descent the staircase behind them. There’s only three of them, so little for such an important event with so many people. There are other guards standing at the doors of the room, but overall there must be ten at most. Something’s off here, but Jazz isn’t sure what it is. Yet. She continues to observe.
“I’ll be back,” she murmurs to Prowl, who looks to her in concerned bemusement. She slips away, pushing through the crowd with the occasionally “pardon me” and “sorry” whenever she bumps anyone a little too hard. She has a hypothesis, and she’s going to prove it.
“Soundwave,” greets Jazz, shaping her mouth around the syllables as though she can taste it, tangible, on her tongue. Soundwave turns to face her, her skirt and veil flowing free around her as silk ripples in water. Jazz extends a hand forward, turning the corners of her mouth upward in a faint smile as a waltz begins in the background. “A dance?”
Soundwave looks back toward Megatronus, who is thoroughly accompanied by his avid conversation with Orion. They seem to be enjoying themselves, debating about something-or-other that neither Soundwave nor Jazz are in on. At Soundwave’s reluctance, Jazz steps forward.
“At least just once,” says Jazz.
“Just this once,” repeats Soundwave, voice so quiet it’s nearly a whisper. Soundwave accepts hesitantly, her pearly-gloved hand light and uncertain in Jazz’s. Jazz yearns for a moment to remove those gloves and touch their hands together properly, skin to skin, but dismisses it as soon as the thought arises.
Instead she whirls Soundwave into the center of the floor amongst other stepping and twirling guests. Soundwave easily keeps up with her steps, perfectly in time—of course, Jazz would have expected nothing less from Megatronus’s musical right hand—and follows Jazz’s lead as if they had rehearsed this beforehand.
“Parties aren’t quite your typical scene, huh?” asks Jazz, though she already knows the answer. Soundwave is solemn and withdrawn most of the time, and if she were at a party, Jazz would expect her to be wearing a pair of headphones behind a neon-flashing DJ’s booth. These kinds of parties—the ones for polite company and idle discussion? Never. Soundwave may be patient, but she isn’t the type to burn time without reason.
“I find myself ... out of my depth to some regard,” Soundwave responds, restraint lining her voice. Her consistent pitch and cadence are an anchor in the flurry of sound around them. She shifts her hand on Jazz’s shoulder, though she doesn’t move it by much.
Jazz takes the opportunity to slide her hand downward from shoulder to waist, noting the unnatural bulk around the underlying corset piece—just to realize it isn’t a typical corset at all. It has straps and padding and a coarse weave. What she’s feeling now, realizes Jazz, is a bullet-resistant vest.
Aha. So that is the reason why there aren’t as many visible guards.
“You got armor underneath the rest of that, too?” Jazz hums in hushed tones, pulling Soundwave a little closer. She keeps her expression pleasant, as if she were only making idle chatter.
“Perceptive,” Soundwave comments, and that is all the answer Jazz receives before they’re swirling in a circle, clockwise across the center of the grand ballroom floor. Jazz is left reeling—damn, was that a compliment?—without time to recover, still focused on keeping in time. “His Majesty thought it a necessary precaution for such an important event such as Prince Megatronus’s coming-of-age celebration.”
“Orion got armor, too?” asks Jazz. She extends her arm to allow Soundwave to spin in place, the pulls her back in.
Soundwave, almost imperceptibly, shakes her head. Her veil ripples. “Orion is unaware. He has been instructed with nothing other than the procedure for the entrance and his objective of accompanying the prince whenever he is not ... otherwise occupied by the suitresses.”
Soundwave begins to take the lead from Jazz now as the music picks up, volume swelling and tempo rising. She keeps her steps smooth and understated, and though Jazz normally would shoot for the dramatics, she tamps down her style to match Soundwave’s. They move in rhythm, up and down, side to side. The music has a distinct on-and-off kind of feeling to it, and Soundwave makes use of one of the various lapses in melody to drop Jazz into a low dip, which Jazz fully leans into. Somehow, this is the most at home she’s felt this entire evening, dancing with Megatronus’s friend she barely knows.
As Soundwave holds the dip another count, Jazz spots Prince Megatronus and Orion standing together, which isn’t very difficult, considering there is practically a swarm of people that surrounds them, a hurricane of attention and Megatronus the eye.
“Sure bet they’re having fun,” Jazz murmurs under her breath as Soundwave pulls her back up to standing. Soundwave huffs lightly in a way that can only be described as a half-scoff.
“Prince Megatronus does not plan on engaging with the suitresses in any significant manner,” says Soundwave as they settle now into a less focused version of the step they had just been performing. They’re mostly rocking back and forth together now, attempting to seem engaged as they converse.
Jazz frowns, though she supposes she shouldn’t be surprised. She’s heard enough from Orion about Megatronus’s hesitation regarding the bride-hunting segment of the ball. “What do you mean?” she asks anyway.
Soundwave shrugs, a subtle jerk of her left shoulder. Jazz feels the movement in the way it shifts the vest under her gown. “Megatronus has no attentions for them,” she says simply. “His eyes are set on another.”
Jazz rolls her eyes. Of course, always the difficulty. She had expected to have to deal with Orion’s shock after the mission was complete—and of course she understood, but Orion didn’t understand the significance of the task. Now, she’d have to reconsider values now that it was all but confirmed that Megatronus had some sort of attachment to Orion past pure friendship and would have to keep in mind that Orion could potentially become a significant variable in this plan. She’d tell Prowl soon enough—Prowl would have thoughts about this.
“Right, they’re obsessed with each other, I get it,” says Jazz, cracking a smile. She squeezes Soundwave’s right hand, intertwined with her left, almost secretively, then spins out of Soundwave’s grip. “Thanks for the dance, Sounders. Be seeing you around!”
Jazz walks with a sway in her hips as she leaves, making sure to swish her gown behind her, like an overturned golden poppy, calendula petals peeking out from the bottom. Wheeljack really had outdone herself with this one, hadn’t she? Jazz would have to lend her her compliments when she returned.
Prowl strides through the throng toward Jazz, hands gripping the front of her skirt to lift it a good few inches off the floor in her hurry. “Jazz,” she hisses. “Keep on track.”
“You know me, Prowler,” says Jazz, winking. “Just doing some recon. Megatronus doesn’t plan on giving any of the suitresses even an ounce of attention—too busy having his eyes trained on Orion, if I’ve got my guess right.”
Prowl presses her lips together. “As should have been expected. When accounted for, there should be no major adjustment to the plan, other than making sure Orion doesn’t get caught in the crossfire. It wouldn’t do well for him to accidentally be compromised instead of the target.”
“Quick as always,” says Jazz. She brushes her hands across the front of the gown, pretending to smooth it out as she felt for the blasters’ place on their straps that holstered them to the sides of her thighs, one on each leg. “Everything else is in place. You?”
“All is in place,” confirms Prowl. “I will continue to linger about the edges of the room and look for any changes since the most recent building plan we received. I have heard something about renovations, and it would be prudent to assure that those renovations are simply cosmetic, or at least in a location that does not jeopardize our initial plan.”
“Got it.” Jazz salutes. “I’m off to talk to the crown prince himself. Scouting again, if you know what I mean.” Jazz leaves Prowl squinting, puzzled, with a smirk threatening to take over her face. Primus, she loves saying vaguely suggestive things and then refusing to explain.
While Prince Megatronus is occupied by the chatter of some of the suitresses vying for his attention, Jazz catches Orion’s attention with a wave and a call of his name, her hand cupped to her mouth.
“Orion! How have you been?” asks Jazz, sidling up to Orion and making sure not to crush the ruffles at the edges of her skirt in her hurry. “It must be kind of overwhelming with all of these guests, huh?”
“It ... sure is something,” says Orion, clutching his chest. “Primus, Jazz. It’s even harder to notice you before you scare me in this crowd.”
Jazz grins, pleased. “Of course. You can’t just expect me to not take advantage of such a good opportunity.” She wiggles her shoulders. “Anyway—mind introducing me to your friend here? Not as a suitress, but just as a fellow friend of yours. We both know my heart is forever taken by electro-swing and espionage.”
Orion smiles, some of the tension visibly bleeding out of his posture. “Yes, of course.” He looks over at Megatronus, still wholly occupied by the incessant onslaught of suitresses queuing up to speak to him. “Ah, but ... you may have to wait a moment. Or several moments. Many a moment.”
“That’s alright, not a problem,” dismisses Jazz, waving a hand in front of her. “Tell me, then, what’s it like being here? You know, the coming-of-age ceremony and all. Megatronus is supposed to find a bride and everything! Big day for your friend here, huh?”
Orion almost seems sheepish in his response. “Yes, but—oh, may I be honest with you, Jazz? I have to admit that I have not been quite enjoying my time here as much as I had hoped. Megatronus is constantly occupied by the suitresses, and though I am ... delighted that he is such a pursued subject, I regret not having much time shared.” He winces. “Er, that is to say, I am not looking forward to his inevitable marriage at all.”
Jazz purses her lips. “No offense, Orion, but I’m not surprised. Disappointed you won’t be his number one anymore, huh?” She nudges Orion, prodding. “You can be honest with me. Nobody’s listening, anyway.”
Orion sighs. “I find it difficult to imagine a life with Megatronus bound to another, even if be for purposes of ruling. Tradition can be overruled, of course, but it would be terribly selfish of me to inhibit Megatronus’s rise to majesty simply out of my own desires.” He shakes his head. “Forget I said such a thing. It would not do well to spoil this night with my qualms.”
Elita-One approaches from the edges of the crowd now, dressed in a fuschia tuxedo and matching bow tie. Though the color choice seems as if it would be ostentatious and overbearing, he makes it work somehow. “Pax! How are you feeling?”
Orion visibly wilts a little. “Do I really look so miserable that everyone in my vicinity feels inclined to check in on me?”
“No, we just know how you and Megatronus are,” says Elita, plain and simple, patting Orion on the shoulder twice. He shrugs. “We’re your friends. That’s just how it goes.”
Orion glances over at Megatronus, then perks back up. “Oh, apologies, Elita—I promised Jazz to give her an introduction to Megatronus as soon as he is available.”
“No worries, have fun,” says Elita, waving them off and making his way back into the crowd. His undecorated cropped hair disappears into the ornate flash of other heads in the mob, seamlessly merging once he’s far enough.
“Prince Megatronus,” greets Jazz, and for a moment Megatronus nearly frowns before catching himself.
“Hello, uh,” says the prince before pausing and looking to Orion. “Orion’s ... friend.”
“Jazz of Polyhex,” says Jazz, bowing slightly with a flourish. “Stanizian sector.”
“He’s talked about you before,” notes Megatronus. He looks to Orion, a conflicted expression tugging at his mouth.
“We worked together before,” explains Orion. “She also used to live in the same area of Iacon that I did when we both worked in the city. She asked to be introduced to you—not as a suitress, Megatronus, do not be alarmed.”
“Of course,” says Megatronus, peering down at them. He’s at least a good head taller than Jazz, she notes, which isn’t a particularly difficult task, but it’s important to note as many details as possible for her mission ahead.
“I’m just here for the fun of it,” lies Jazz, her smile still easy and natural. She thinks to the blasters strapped to her thighs, detachable scope tucked away in the petticoat. She leans in a little closer as Orion receives a tap to his shoulder and turns around to greet Prowl. “Besides, I’ve heard you aren’t so interested in the suitresses anyway. Isn’t that right?”
Megatronus pauses. Frowns. “Though that is not considered a publicly admissible opinion of mine, yes. If His Majesty has even heard passing rumors of the thought—”
“Just Soundwave,” says Jazz, “and Soundwave knows everything.” She pauses for a moment as her skin prickles again, the sensation of eyes on her, and she lets her eyes drift behind Megatronus to confirm. There she is—Soundwave. Jazz subtly nods in her direction, allowing one corner of her mouth to twitch upward. Soundwave pauses, then turns her head away like a child caught.
A tap to Jazz’s shoulder—must be Prowl from the way she always taps twice, two firm touches, three fingers.
“It’s time,” says Prowl.
Jazz spins on her heel to meet Prowl, then turns her head back to bode farewell. “Enjoy your evening, Megatronus,” says Jazz. She waggles her fingers at him, gold rings flashing, before turning back around and leaving with Prowl.
Now it’s time for the night to truly begin.
“Pardon me, where are the restrooms?” asks Jazz, tapping the shoulder of a nearby server. He points them out through one of the side doors and down the hall, following a line of plush carpet and rich maroon wallpaper. Leave it to Kaon to decorate in dark colors everywhere, a stark contrast to the clean, pale tones of the city. Iacon is all white, gold, and glass panels, something sterile yet elegant about it all. Kaon’s always been more earthy and rich, like smooth jazz and red wine.
“Remember the protocol, Jazz,” Prowl murmurs under her breath as they make their way through the hall, walking in leisurely step as not to draw any more attention from the server behind them. “Recalibrate and synchronize chronometers. At 1900—”
“—you’ll be moving Megatronus to the spot, and I’ll be watching,” finishes Jazz, tapping the spot on her hip where her chronometer is fastened. She flashes a grin. “You know it, Prowler. Any changes to relevant building layout?”
“None,” confirms Prowl. A thrilling stream of energy bubbles up inside of Jazz’s chest. Everything is going smoothly so far.
The restroom is possibly the largest and most high-end restroom Jazz has ever been in; it has a whole lounge space in between with tall mirrors stretching from counter to ceiling, a large dark oak doorway leading to the restroom itself, and everything from extra towels and tissues to oil blotting papers, toothpicks, and spare combs.
“What is this, a restroom or a luxury resort?” comments Jazz, staring around at the well-lit space. She shakes her head. “These billionaire kings sure have it all, huh?”
“That’s how it always is,” dismisses Prowl. Jazz somehow can’t tell if she’s annoyed or accepting of the statement.
Jazz untucks the extra fabric that went under her corset (in order to keep up the look of one intact ballgown, of course), flattening it down against the skirt to expose the seam. She then works around the seam where her corset meets her skirt to find the hooks and clasps, detaching her skirt bit by bit until it is fully removed from her top. She drops the pale petticoat next, wrapping it around the skirt and compressing the whole bundle to turn it into a compact bag—again, thank Primus for having Wheeljack on her side. Jazz makes a mental reminder to get Wheeljack a gift after this—some of those overpriced chocolates she likes, maybe?
Jazz unhooks the corset and wiggles out of it, too, shoving it into the bag and tying the whole bunch together with a long strip of fabric that hangs out of the pack. She slips off her rings and bracelets, folding a piece of fabric over them in a makeshift pocket so they don’t audibly jangle. She slings the pack over her shoulders like a backpack, now left with just a black bodysuit underneath.
Oh, and heels. Jazz shoves those into the backpack, too, and instead slips on the thin grip soles she’d been keeping in the pockets of her bodysuit. Prowl somehow pulls out an entire pair of indigo-purple cargo pants, the exact ones the maintenance workers wear, from underneath her dress.
“What in the Pit,” says Jazz, but slips into the pants anyway. She unclips her switchblade from her waist and shoves it into a pocket for easy access.
Once she’s done, she salutes Prowl, who returns to the ballroom through a slightly different entrance—turns out all of the entrances are connected through the hallway, which is mighty helpful. Jazz bolts down the opposite direction down the hallway, racing toward the maintenance closet. None of the guards should be changing shifts at the moment, and if any guests pass by, she’s confident she can pass as a convincing maintenance worker looking for something in the closet.
She takes out her lockpicks—her favorite hook, rake, and tension wrench—and begins to work at the closet lock. Her first attempt is a rake, because it’s always best to start with the easiest. She saws it back and forth within the lock, though it doesn’t quite pop open that way. She sighs and resigns herself to doing it the slow way.
Just a few seconds later, Jazz finds out the “slow way” isn’t so slow at all. She shrugs and pockets the picks, a little rush of excitement pumping through her veins. She can faintly hear her heartbeat in her ears, a faint beating. Her skin prickles again as she makes her way in through the door and closes it again behind her. She’d lock it, but an easy escape is more important than preventing anyone from opening it on accident. The worst that could happen is that someone thinks a maintenance worker forgot to close it properly from earlier in the afternoon.
She pushes past overstuffed shelves and racks along the wall, rolling a hanging rack in the center of the room to the side in order to access the maintenance ladder on the side. She begins to climb the rungs, aluminum cool under her hands. The ladder rattles once, then she adjusts and makes the rest of her way up silently. She pops open the maintenance hatch at the top of the ladder, pushing the metal trapdoor upward and pulling herself through it, closing it behind her again.
The window-cleaning hall is larger than she’d expected. Light floods in only from the chandelier behind the tall glass windows, and when Jazz steps a little closer to look through them, swerving around a wooden column, she can see the swirl of guests down below. She spots Prince Megatronus quite easily, rich purple drapes and blue Orion at his tail.
The spot she has agreed on with Prowl is easy to aim for if Jazz just braces the bottom edge of her gun on the central bit of solder on the windows, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. She rummages within her pack for the scope, her hands easily closing around the hard object and pulling it out from within the petticoat where it had been stored until now. She then unholsters her blaster from its strap on her bodysuit, just under the waistband of her stolen pants, looking it back and forth under the pulsing light of the chandelier for the rail of the scope mount so she can properly attach the thing. She’d turn on the room lights, but she doesn’t want to be any more conspicuous than she already is. It wouldn’t do for a guest down below to notice the lights and spot her.
Her skin prickles.
“Desist,” Soundwave says from behind her.
Jazz whirls around to face Soundwave, blaster pointed straight ahead of her. Soundwave knocks the gun out of her hand, sending it skidding across the floor. Jazz crouches a little in place, mind running faster than a bullet shoots through the air. Soundwave. How hadn’t she heard? How hadn’t she noticed? When had Soundwave gotten here?
“Hey, Sounders,” says Jazz, straightening up and propping her hands on her hips casually despite the rush of blood in her head. Her heart pumps in her ears, though she gives no outward indication of it. “Come to crash my party?”
“Assassination: will not be permitted,” Soundwave drones neutrally, flicking her head slightly. She’s still wearing her veil and most of her dress, somehow, though the longest layers have been removed. She’s just in her petticoat and corset top now, appearing strangely undressed.
“Who, me?” says Jazz, one corner of her mouth pulling upward in a shell of a smile. “I’m just admiring the view.”
Soundwave stares ahead, voice neutral, though Jazz catches the near-stumble to the beginning of her words. “Northeastern union: feels threatened by Kaon. Prince Megatronus’s assassination: will delay proceeding of other plans.”
Jazz whistles. “Caught on real quick, huh?” She leans in a little closer to Soundwave, distracting away from her hands as she slowly lowers one to reach for her pants pocket. “Too bad you didn’t think of everything.”
With a press of her thumb, she hits the button on her switchblade, angling it away from her as it slices clean through the left side of her pants. She drops the knife and pins it under her shoe, grabbing for her extra blaster beneath the shredded layer and bringing it up to press against Soundwave’s forehead. Jazz backs Soundwave up until her back is pressed against one of the wooden posts that reach to the ceiling, dragging the knife with her. She won’t be losing another weapon, thanks, but she’s not about to pick it up and give Soundwave a chance to get the jump on her.
“Jazz: skilled,” breathes Soundwave, sounding choked-off. Jazz wishes her hands were around Soundwave’s throat for real.
“Same goes for you,” says Jazz. She pauses as the chronometer on her hip buzzes. It’s 1900. Time for her to strike. “Sorry for this, by the way.”
She knees Soundwave in the stomach, pushing her back against the post, then uses that momentum to push off toward the window. She braces the bottom of her blaster against that central piece of solder, hoping that she’ll make the shot even without the scope, and fires. She doesn’t waste any time before opening the hatch and dropping straight down from it as Soundwave recovers and scrambles toward the hatch behind her. A scrap of golden silk tears as it catches on the hatch, though Jazz has no time to go back and retrieve it.
Jazz jumps out through the maintenance door. She was right—she did end up needing a quick exit, disregarding how leaving the door unlocked must have made everything easier for Soundwave. She sprints down the hall and out through the tall window at the edge of the hall, making a break for it. She has confidence Prowl will find her eventually if she just retreats back to her spot. Their spot. That garage next to the park that workers only ever open on Tuesdays.
At the heart of Kaon, the tiles under the chandelier soak in blood. Hands cradle a strip of torn silk.